#its like the opposite of axe perfume

[hunnieknight]

I heard @sea-lanterns got a nice perfume

#its like the opposite of axe perfume #it attracts women but for women #sounds gay #imaginedraw #hunniedraw #navia #navia genshin #navia x reader #navia art

[kurottsukii]

Two | 0.0.2

So far, my night took a turn for the worst. Instead of taking me out to eat like she was complaining about before-hand, my dearest best friend has dragged me into a night club that smelled like desperation, cheap perfume and sex. Not to mention the intense smell of AXE body spray that some poor bum was wearing to attract the ladies, it was definitely doing the opposite because I swear it burned the remaining of my nose hairs.

Eva didn't seem to mind since she ran and sat next to the walking girl replent to order drinks. I for one hand, refused to have my nostrils assulted again so instead I stood by the door with my hands stuffed deep into my hoodie's pockets as I just watch Eva from afar. Gotta make sure no dirt bag tried to do anything stupid.

No I'm not trying to be a cock block, I'm just worried about her you know? It only takes one look for men to want to hit that. I mean who wouldn't? She had beautiful coca butter skin, long black curls, breast bigger than mine, green rain forest eyes and a fat ass. She was the perfect girl for any dude but too bad she was a lesbian. Good for me because...I'm fruity too, well, half fruity..I'm bisexual, but still bad for them.

Eva was wearing a red dress that hugged her body perfectly and stopped above the knees, meanwhile I was still wearing what I had on back at the event, I was under the impression that we was going out for take out so I didn't change, now I wished I did as soon as I saw her slip on that dress. I knew it was too good to be true, Eva never overdressed for take out.

I looked over to see Eva making her way towards me with two glasses of what I assumed to be rum mix with tequila and cranberry juice, which was my favorite.

My smile widen as I took the glass out of her hand and went to sit down, she followed behind and sat beside me, downing her drink first.

"I'm thinking about quitting UFC and MMA.." I blurted out, I don't know why but it just spilled out my mouth, just like how Eva's drink "spilled" out her mouth as she stared at me with a confused look on her face. "You. WHAT?!"

"I'm thinking about quitting UFC and MMA to join WWE." I repeated in a hush tone, my eyes now on my glass that was still untouched. I was still unsure of my decision and rather or not if I was making the right choice. I mean this could put my name on the mat, yeah MMA and UFC are big companies but there's so much they could do. With WWE, there is no limit, the show cases are big, the numbers are big, the payment is big. I mean their whole roaster has over a million followers on Instagram while I'm sitting on six hundred thousand followers right now, I could be big.

By the time I looked up to see her reaction, it changed from confusion to dead serious. "Are you going to give up your titles and carry your five year winning streak to wwe or let someone break your streak like Ronda's."

Me? Loosing my titles that I worked YEARS for? "Bitch please, I'll be damned if I leave the company as a loser. I'ma just give up my titles and make an announcement tomorrow in the ring like a true fighter." She then, nodded at my response but I could tell that she didn't believe me, nor liked my decision.

"I already told Vince that before I signed the contract I have a few requests." She nodded again, resting her chin in her palms. "What kind of request though?"

"One, I want to do my own promos, everyone knows how good I am on the mic and the fans love it when I speak from the heart and talk shit. Two, I want to fight both the superstars and divas, because that's what I'm good at and I wanna continue it. Three, I don't want my character to change, I don't want to change. Not even if its for a big storyline, I'm a crazy, ruthless bitch and I want to stay that way. And if I have to dress like a diva, I want my attire to be similar to my aunt but a bit different. I don't think that's too much, I don't want a bigger pay or to get all the TV time. But if I'm going to be in the company I want to do it my way, all the other things...I'll be happy to follow. Oh! And the last thing is if I cut a promo with someone I wanna be surprised and it have to be brutal. Remember that one girl that talked shit about my mom being in a mental hospital? That shit was so fucked up but eh. I beat her ass and won the championship."

"Yeah I remember, the girl left with her nose to the side of her face. Honestly, all that sounds great and reasonable but who says vince will agree to that? And if he does, who says it'll stay that way? He wants you because you're the hottest thing in sports entertainment right now, I may be a dancer but I ain't stupid. He sees you as a money bag. Like your aunt, he'll just milk you dry."

As much as I wanted her to be wrong. She was right and she knew I know she's right. I saw what that man did to my family, why would I want to go into that. And not even go in blindly, its like I'm walking into a trap willingly, but what else can I do? My career is great so far, but wwe can make it better. I can be better.

As bad as I wanted to argue or just try to get her to see my point, it wouldn't matter. No matter what she says or would say, I made my decision and she knows that. So instead of talking back, I drank. I just drank and let my eyes wonder out to the dance floor full of worry free drunks. I'm not really the social or dancer type but it is always fun to be in a club. The drinks were good, the people were cute, the music is always just right. And you were always guaranteed to take someone home with you, and staying on the subject; Eva was practically eye fucking this girl across from us. Already I knew I was going to be alone for the night, so why not drink my worries away and dance till I can't anymore.

After downing a few drinks, I hit the floor. You know the feeling of having the vibrations under your feet or against your finger tips? That's what I was feeling, the dj was currently playing Crazy In Love by Beyonce and I swear if it wasn't the alcohol in my system, it was the vibrations from the beat that was making me dance.

Now I know I look like shit right now but I was dancing like I'm the baddest bitch in the club, with a couple of hair flips, and swaying of my hips, I could already feel someone pressed up against me. Their hands firmly on my hips, their movement following mine. Normally I would moved from this stranger's grip, and trust me I was about to but the music chance convinced me to stay. And as soon as No Hands started playing, I was already throwing back on whoever was behind me.

Now I have a fat ass but not Nicki fat but best believe I was doing my thing and the guy behind me would agreed because I swear I just felt his mini him against my ass.

This continued for hours, by this time Eva was already gone and I was shit faced, grinding up against a guy I didn't know but he was sure damn cute. I'm not really into blondes but he was an exception, he had the most sexiest deep blue ocean eyes, the right amount of facial hair and the kind of smile to make a girl weak to her knees which was me because everytime he flashed that pretty boy smile, I had to fight the urge to not suck on those lips.

He just felt so right at the moment, it was probably the alcohol talking but, this is the guy I'm taking home tonight.

__________

By the time I woke up, it read six thirty a.m. on my phone which was the only light source at the moment, it was surprisingly still dark, it was either that or these hotel blinds were really good at blocking out the light. Either way it was pitch black and really fucking early. I shouldn't even be awake right now, the event was in the evening and I usually wake up at 12 in the afternoon but the sudden movement beside me spooked me awake.

There beside me, was the most beautiful guy that I sadly don't even remember. Actually, I don't even remember shit from last night but it wasn't rocket science to know that we had sex. Even though I don't remember it, I really hoped it was good. I mean by how cute he was, it better have been.

What am I even saying? There is a guy in my bed that I don't remember and I'm over here worrying about if the sex was good? God what is wrong with you Yovanna? This isn't you, well, me. This isn't me, I don't even drink like that, let alone sleep with a guy I just meant. Even if he looked so damn cute while sleeping and...even if his warmth around me felt comforting, and how he feels so great right now....not to mention how good he sme-

God fuckin dammit, what is wrong with me!?

Luckily the sound of my phone vibrating broke whatever kind of spell I was in, it was a notification from twitter. Apparently I've been mentioned in a tweet. Usually I would just heart these and ignore them because usually they were fans but this time was different. It was an wwe superstar, now I wasn't aware the wrestlers there knew I was coming, I mean I barely even let told Vince my decision yet.

@RandyOrtanWWE

I wanted to be the first to greet the new comer on the behalf of wwe and the authority. @YovannaUFC welcome princess, glad to see vince add more dick sucking, wannabe divas into the business, we are really running out of those here. As much as you think you're the best in sports entertainment, think again love. You're in the vipar's territory now.

What. The. Absolute. Fuck?

#randy orton #the shield #wwe #hunter toh #hhhhh #brazil #dean ambrose #roman reigns #seth rollins #becky lynch #vince mcmahon

[littlx-songbxrd]

I have a lot of autistic tlh headcanons-

Alastair:

-stims by walking and playing piano. occasionally taps his fingers against any hard surface

-avoids velvet anything. he'd rather die than touch it

-gets sick from anything with the alcohol smell ie most hand sanitizers, perfume, certain cleaning products

-hyperfixates on poems, calligraphy, and his bf

-he doesn't know what his special interest actually is so he just says it's bantering with matthew and hating james

Thomas:

-stims by popping his knuckles, playing guitar, and swinging his legs in opposite circles while sitting on a tree branch or the edge of a roof

-will gag violently if he eats a mushy/soft carrot, squash, cucumber, or a soggy sandwich

-cant stand strawberries or lemons. both a texture and a smell problem

-special interests include alastair, anything to do with his latine heritage, and persian culture

Lucie:

-rarely stims

-she likes to swing her axe around when she's bored, anything that makes her arms move is fun and scratches brain

-is ok with velvet but much prefers it in cake form

-hates silk. h a t e s.

-hyperfixates on persian culture and the paranormal

-special interest is writing

Matthew:

-does not know he's autistic

-thinks he's severely broken inside

-stims by hitting his head and scratching his arms

-gets defensive easily because he's worried that if someone gets too close they'll discover how "broken" he is

-self medicates(canon)

-hyperfiates on fashion and romance

-special interest is oscar wilde

Grace:

-science autistic

-stims by throwing stuff, typically darts and hair pins but occasionally knives

-as much as she hates how many bad memories are tied to her hair, she'll never cut it because n o

-randomly taps her thigh with her palm in various speeds

-special interest is chemistry

Christopher:

-sciene AND math autistic

-plays with his fingers in different ways

-deals with really bad and negative thoughts

-nightmare disorder

-hyperfixates on psychology so he can help grace with her ptsd

-special interests are chemistry, physics, algebra, geometry, engineering

Kamala:

-also doesn't know she's autistic

-is incredibly emotional and sensitive

-she thinks it's because she's a woman

-needs constant touching

-stims by pacing and humming

-special interests are bees, butterflies, doves, and roses

-hyperfixates on how people perceive her and needing to be perfect

I am SO READY OK. Im not autistic so im mostly giving you reactions as i go but fbfjfjjfjfjfjfnf

----

Alastair supremacy pls bantering with mathew and hating james is always the goal here.

P o e m s c a l l i g r a p h y

Actually my friend really got into caligraphy and its so cool to watch them i can imagine alastair

I ALSO LOVE HIM WALKING AS A STIM

-----

Thomas hcs are all so true and so real and can we PLEASE TALK ABOUT HOW HORRIBLE STRAWBERRIES ARE THEY FUCKING SUCK GOD THOMAS IS SO CORRECT FOR THAT OPINION.

Also i know these are your hcs. But for latine heritage thing may i suggest magic realism? Its a latin american literary movement based around bringing fantasy elements to normal settings with little to no explanation that are usually a critic to society. It is one of the funnest most spectacular literary concepts in latin america.

----

ARMS MOVING SCRATCHES BRAIN

Justified hatred

Persian culture and the paranormal is so LUCIE GOD VDJDJD YEA

----

It all very much sounds like mathew. The part where he thinks they'll all just realize how broken he is hurts

----

THROWING STUFF >>

The hair thing damn.

CHEMESTRTYYY

---

Tbh id kill to see you write christopher centric stuff. I dont think ive seen that very much and im so intrigued by this interpretation

---

Kamala 🤝 Isabela Madrigal / lh

BUT ANYWAYS OMG YES I SPECIALLY LOVE THE HUMMING PART

#damn ly you mentioning thomas stimming with guitar is reminding me i havent seen mine in 2 days im in physical pain #rains been so bad here i had to leave it in the rehearsal room #im sure you get that.... hurricane season am i right #but yeah im in pain i usually play with the strings to help when im too energetic i need my guitar back pls #ALSO ALL THIS FHDJFJFJJFJR THANJ YOU FOR SHARING

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

🥺 babe 🥺 bAbE

What if Jask gets sick at Kaer Morhen but tries to hide it from Geralt bc he doesn't want him to think he's gross/weak/etc? And Geralt has the Feelings Braincell for once?

oh babe... thank you

tw: sickness, falling unconscious, fever, whump/angst with a happy ending

---

Jaskier knew he had a fever the moment he woke up. He could feel it burning beneath this skin like a forge, flushing his face a more vibrant shade of pink than usual. He glared at his reflection in the small, round mirror above his dressing table and willed himself to feel better. It was his first winter at Kaer Morhen, and he didn’t want Geralt to think he’d made a mistake by inviting Jaskier along to stay. The bard knew that his stoic, self-loathing Witcher would blame himself immediately for any misfortune or illness that befell Jaskier. Geralt might even reconsider inviting him back again someday. So he had to keep his little bug a secret until he was well. Surely it was nothing major. Surely it would pass after a few days, unnoticed and unremarkable.

He should have known better.

Jaskier dabbed a bit more perfume than usual (which was generally none at all) beneath his ears and along his wrists. He hoped the peony-lavender mixture would mask whatever kind of scent his illness might carry and slowly, carefully made his way down the long stone staircase that led from the guest bedroom to the enormous kitchen. His limbs felt achy and tired, even though he’d slept heavily the night previous. His head sat heavy and unbalanced atop his shoulders; the world wavered and spun around him as he desperately tried to keep from pitching sideways into the wall. 

“You alright there, boy?” Vesemir asked, catching his eye from the bottom of the stairs. “You seem a bit… nervous.”

Maybe his anxiety was doing a better job of hiding his secret than the perfume. 

“Just a little wool between my ears this morning,” the bard laughed brightly, ignoring the searing pain that throbbed through his chest with the movement, “I think I might go chop some wood and see if the brisk mountain air helps clear it out faster.”

“Hmm,” the eldest Wolf nodded sagely. There was no doubt which teacher Geralt had admired most as a pup. “Alright. Be safe, take care. I’ll send someone to fetch you when breakfast is ready.”

“Thank you, Vesemir,” Jaskier bowed shallowly and headed for the kitchen’s back door. He took the axe into his hands and tried not to sway on his feet from the added weight. The bard covered his tracks by throwing a smile back over his shoulder and pushing the door open. “See you for breakfast!”

He stepped out of the keep and let the heavy slab of wood slam shut behind him. The early morning sky above Kaer Morhen was cloudless and the sun was bright, blinding him entirely. His situation only worsened when the sudden change in temperature, from the warm kitchen to the freezing mountainside, punched the air from his lungs in one thick cloud. He struggled to regain it as he wove his way through the snow drifts to the woodpile. Slowly, and with great effort, Jaskier lined up a thick log to be split.

The world felt watery and far away. His hand, which he knew to be attached to the end of his arm by some miracle, would not obey his command to pick up the axe again. His lungs felt heavy in his chest cavity and his legs suddenly ached with a fierce intensity. 

With a quiet cry of protest against his own body failing him, Jaskier collapsed into the snow.

---

Jaskier’s heartbeat was so slow and quiet, his limbs unmoving and his lips nearly blue from the cold; Geralt wasn’t sure he’d ever been so scared before in his life. He turned to Vesemir and asked, barely keeping the frantic terror from clawing its way out of his throat: “How long was he out there?” 

“Half an hour at most,” the grey Wolf shrugged. “I don’t really remember, Geralt. I was busy taking care of the breakfast arrangements.”

“Fuck!”

“Calm down,” Eskel ordered. He frowned at Geralt from his place at Jaskier’s opposite side. He’d helped carry the bard from the courtyard to Geralt’s room and was just as worried about the human’s wellbeing. “Panicking won’t help him. Now, what’s the problem?”

“It’s hard to tell over all that stupid perfume,” Lambert snarled. “Stupid fucking bard fucking knew we would be able to smell it on him. He covered his gods-damned tracks.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmured, having grown suddenly calm. He let the back of his knuckles drag softly across the bard’s too-hot cheek until he could stick a stray lock of sweaty brown hair back behind his ear. “You idiot.”

The bard shifted against the blanket they’d laid him on, his brow wrinkling. His arms twitched slightly, as if he was trying to move them, and he whined plaintively: “G’ralt.”

“I’m here, Jask,” the Witcher replied quickly, forgetting they weren’t alone in the room. He took one of the bard’s freezing hands into his own and began rubbing the warmth back into his fingers. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you better. You’ll be alright.”

“Who are you trying to reassure?” Lambert huffed a short laugh. “You or the bard?”

“Leave off,” Eskel shot his younger brother a glare. The redhead rolled his eyes and moved to lean against the wall near the door. Eskel continued speaking to Lambert, but his eyes were back on Jaskier, who kept trying to get closer to Geralt even in his sleep. “Why don’t you go grab some clean clothes from his room while we get him warmed up and conscious again.”

“Fine,” Lambert spat. But he took off at a quick trot, regardless.

“Geralt, get his wet clothes off and get him wrapped up. Eskel, you come with me to the kitchen. I’ll need help carrying things and I’m sure the bard would prefer some privacy in this particular matter.”

Eskel nodded his agreement and followed Vesemir from the room, leaving Geralt alone with Jaskier. The White Wolf hurried to undress and swaddle the bard with a warm, heavy wool blanket and several furs, talking all the while in a low, worried voice. “Fuck, Jaskier. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry this happened and that you- Why did you hide it? Why wouldn’t you- Are you afraid of me? Is that why you didn’t come to me for help?”

Jaskier’s lids fluttered open and Geralt watched with nervous anticipation as two of the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen, blue as cornflowers and brighter than the spring sky, tried their best to focus on his face. “Geralt?”

“I’m here, Jaskier. What’s ailing you? Please, tell me how I can help you.”

“Hurts,” the bard managed to groan. “To breathe.”

“Fuck,” Geralt growled. “We need to get you warm. Lambert should be back with your clothes by now.”

Jaskier’s head lolled back against the pillow and he struggled to reach for his Witcher, “Hold me.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll warm up-” he gasped between words, as if every syllable pained him to expel “-faster if… you hold me.”

“Hmm,” Geralt’s brows furrowed in frustration. He knew Jaskier was right, that he’d feel better faster with skin-on-skin contact, but he also wanted to hold Jaskier for other, less emergency-based reasons. That was unacceptable. Losing Jaskier to death or sickness or other human reasons was intolerable but losing him, in all senses of the word, because of Geralt’s impossible feelings? That would be truly horrendous.

The warring factions of his heart were still clamoring over a decision when Eskel and Vesemir re-entered carrying two large trays. One was covered with foodstuffs and the other held an enormous clay teapot and mugs. A small pot of honey, gathered from Vesemir’s very own beehives, was the most obvious sign of affection Geralt had ever seen the older man display for a near-stranger. 

“I’m gonna… get… spoiled,” Jaskier gasped. The eldest Wolf shot Geralt a glare. 

“Why aren’t you in there with him? You know the best way to warm up a hypothermic person is skin contact, Geralt! I certainly taught you better than this.”

“I didn’t-” he stuttered. “I wasn’t-”

“He’s afraid,” Jaskier smiled sadly, cuddling himself deeper into the furs as he turned his gaze towards the fire. All three of the Witchers could smell his sadness, even more potent than the illness ravaging his delicate human body. Geralt winced when his brother and father glared at him in tandem, expressions nearly matching in fury. The bard was still looking away, watching the flames send dancing patterns of light against the stone walls. “Don’t worry… won’t ask… for any more.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispered, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress. “May I hold you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s our cue to leave,” Vesemir smiled beneath his mustache. Jaskier was too tired to blush, and opted to bury his head in Geralt’s shoulder instead. “Come along, Eskel. Let’s see what Lambert has gotten up to.”

“What about Jaskier’s clothes?”

“He can borrow Geralt’s for now. I’m sure our White Wolf won’t mind sharing; he’s the possessive type, after all.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and grumbled out of habit more than disagreement. 

When Vesemir and Eskel had gone for good and the door was closed, Geralt pulled Jaskier out of the furs and removed his own shirt. He settled the bard against his chest and buried his nose in Jaskier’s dark hair, breathing in the scents of sweat and sickness and now, thank the gods, tangy-bright happiness. “Gods, Jaskier. Don’t scare me like that ever again. I can’t lose you.”

“I didn’t… want… to disappoint.”

“You never do and never will,” Geralt intoned. He pulled the furs over them both and splayed his large hands across Jaskier’s back. The bard’s skin was overly hot in some places and freezing in others; Geralt buried his panic in order to care for... for the man he loved. He took a deep breath and rubbed slow circles between the bard’s shoulder blades. “I… I love you, Jaskier.”

“Hmm,” the bard hummed tunelessly. “Love you… too.”

Geralt helped him sit up and drink a mug of tea. He listened, slowly allowing himself to relax, as Jaskier’s breathing eased and his heartbeat balanced. When the tea was gone and the fire was re-built to Geralt’s satisfaction, the Witcher tucked Jaskier’s head beneath his chin and wrapped his arms around the bard’s shoulders. “Oh, my little lark. I’ve been so foolish for too long.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier grinned into the Witcher’s warm pectoral. “Me... too.”

“Well, we’ll have plenty of time when you feel better,” Geralt murmured, lips pressing over and over to the top of the bard’s head. Jaskier couldn’t keep himself from smiling, even as he drifted back to sleep. The Witcher felt something settle in his chest when he whispered: “Rest up, dear heart. There are many more adventures to be had.”

#geraskier #sickfic #geraskier sickfic #geraskier fluff #getting together #bouncey's endless getting together fics #jaskier whump #winter at kaer morhen #wifey's prompts #comfy's prompts #anything for you boo #geraskier fluffiness #geraskier ficlet

[ackermelon]

I woke up and realised that I had sent a text to my friend at 4 A.M. the previous night. I had no recollection of that, but the text simply said, "I just know Zeke smells like sweat all the time." Half-asleep me knows what's up.

Anyway, so this started a long conversation about how some anime characters would smell. Here are the highlights (attack on titan and haikyuu):

Attack on Titan:

Erwin: I think he'd smell like sweat, but not the overpowering, fly-killing, coma-inducing, kind. It's like, natural, subtle, and weirdly comforting. He looks to be the type to never get cold. Like, he just radiates heat, and he tends to sweat, even in winter. However, he knows how to manage it and still smell decent.

Hange: Wet dog. I'm sorry, but they look like they shower once every blue moon. Occasionally, Moblit would hose them down, but after he... you know, Hange focused more on work and less on themself.

Levi: Sorry to be bland and "like the other girls", but he smells like detergent. Everyone says that because it's true. He does all the cleaning, and makes sure to remain clean himself. He would also smell like soap, but only a little. I feel like he's the opposite of Erwin: his body temperature is naturally cold, so he doesn't sweat as often, unless they're outside the walls fighting titans and shit.

Jean & Connie: Sweat. All the fucking time. However, after the timeskip, they started taking the time to clean themselves to save the people around them from having to inhale their revolting body odour. Towards the end of the manga, they invest in some quality perfume because it was about time they got laid.

Colt: He would smell like fresh laundry; like, his natural scent would be so refreshing - very clean and warm. I described it as, "infused with serotonin." But maybe that's just me, considering I would risk it all for this delicious man.

Floch: Nasty. Call me biased because I hate this son of a bitch, motherfucking stinky poopy asshole. I feel like I could smell his nasty ass breath through the screen. Piss yellow teeth and lots of cavities. He doesn't even have to raise his arms for us to smell his deadly body odour. I feel like gagging just looking at his face; imagine having to smell him too.

Summary: Realistically, they would all smell like sweat; I'm pretty sure Isayama said that pretty much all the characters have bad hygiene. I wouldn't blame them considering their life was at risk from the second they'd left the womb. However, I believe some of them manage it better than the others.

Haikyuu:

Daichi: He definitely uses body spray, but it's much less subtle than Axe, and it actually smells good. He doesn't use it everyday - mostly on the days he has vb training or whenever he feels like it. His natural scent is... oh boy, lordy lord. Let's leave it at that.

Sugawara: Fruity. Suga smells fruity. He loves berry and citrus-scented perfumes and he never leaves the house without spraying some. It's not overpowering, but you instantly smell it when you get near him. It's perfect.

Hinata & Kageyama: Listen, they shower everyday, and they come out of that shower smelling pretty good. However, whatever happens in the 7.32 minutes after that undos the shower completely. Like can they sit down for a second??? They reek of sweat. Hinata doesn't even notice, but Kageyama carries baby wipes around to try and manage the odour. Hinata starts doing the same halfway through his second year.

Tanaka & Nishinoya: ... You know what's coming.... Team Axe spray. They spray, inhale and ingest that shit. They go through 16 bottles a month. However, they drifted away from that cursed product during their third year and started using a cologne they stole from Akiteru's bag (he forgot it at Tanaka's house after he finished "hanging out" with Saeko). Yes, they did find condoms in there and Tanaka now greets him with a glare.

Tsukishima: This man always smells good. Always. You will never catch him lacking. Usually, he wouldn't wear any artificial scents or perfumes, but when it comes to occasions.... My God. This man will pull out the most luxurious, most expensive perfume you have ever seen. He has a lot of savings which he uses to buy shit like that. But yeah, you will instantly get down on one knee if you were to catch a sniff of him.

Yamaguchi: He isn't a big fan of perfumes, but his natural scent is phenomenal. He often smells like his body wash, which is just a nice, soapy scent.

Kiyoko: Flowers. Expensive Marc Jacobs perfume. Heart eyes for my queen.

Kuroo & Bokuto: As first-years, they were loyal to their bottle of Axe. However, they did notice that they were basically repelling girls (that didn't matter as much when they became second years and Kenma and Akaashi came into the picture <3). They ended up "borrowing" Daichi's body spray during training camp that year and their loyalty shifted to that. They have yet to return the now empty bottle to its rightful owner.

Kenma: Doesn't give two shits. If he smells like soap, then he smells like soap. If he smells like piss and diarrhea, then so be it.

Akaashi: This man... This man. He moisturises daily. I just know it. He would borrow expensive lotion from his mother since he isn't the biggest fan of perfumes. Vanilla, yes. And whenever he doesn't use scents, he would smell like laundry powder, Lavender. Or just heaven in general.

Oikawa: We all know this man is broke but pretends he isn't. We just do. He uses cheap dollar store perfume and tells people it's fucking Gucci. You know he would. No use denying it. People just go along with it because he always looks submissive and breedable.

Iwaizumi: Definitely a cologne guy. He puts it on after his daily shower and it lasts all day. Aoba Johsai members are all in love with him. He's the human manifestation of a gay awakening. As for Iwaizumi Hajime, 27, athletic trainer, he uses a more expensive cologne and the MSBY players, their opponents AND the audience all fawn and drool over him. They didn't come to watch or play the game, they came to watch Iwaizumi Hajime and perhaps catch a whiff of that musky scent. He's thick though so he doesn't notice.

Summary: I don't think these high schoolers would go without some sort of artificial scent, with some exceptions of course. Let's just appreciate the ones that don't use Axe spray. If I wanted my nose hairs gone, I'd wax them.

Thank you for listening. Feel free to add on.

#haikyuu!! #attack on titan #haikyū!! #snk #aot headcanons #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu hcs #hinata shoyo #daichi sawamura #sugawara koushi #yamaguchi tadashi #tsukishima kei #kiyoko shimizu #tanaka saeko #tanaka ryuunosuke #nishinoya yū #kuroo tetsurou #bokuto #akaashi keiji #kenma kozume #oikawa tooru #iwaizumi hajime #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu drabbles #erwin smith #levi ackerman #hange zoe #hange x moblit #jean kirstein #connie springer

[architectuul]

An Attempted Utopia

The city of Shumen in Bulgaria is home to the country’s largest monument to the Founders of the Bulgarian State. An enormous, cathedral-like complex on the plateau above Shumen tells the story of the early Bulgarian rulers through a series of larger-than-life modernist sculptures. 

Shumen Central City Square (1988-1989), unfinished. Created by Ivan Sivrev, Elena Konyarska, Maya Petrova, and Tsvetan Vasilev; chief consultant architect Georgi Stoilov. | Photo © Darmon Richter

But while many other memorials built during the communist period have been doomed now to decay and obsolescence owing to their political symbolism – branded as they often are with hammers, sickles and stars – the Shumen monument, by focussing purely on the ancient past, has managed to remain relevant to, and loved by, its inheritors. Today this symbol of Bulgarian nationhood is better preserved than probably any other monument built during the 45 years of Bulgarian communism so many foreign visitors come to Shumen to marvel at it. 

An upwards view, from deep within the abandoned construction site of the Central City Square concrete tower.  | Photo © Darmon Richter

A vast concrete tower looms over Shumen’s city centre: phallic, foreboding, and visible from all ends of the city. Standing 18 storeys high, the tower rises from a construction site six storeys tall and spreading out to fill an entire city block. The Central City Square, a gargantuan experiment in urban design was intended to be revolutionary, incorporating shops, hotel, post office, cafes, restaurants, hall for weddings and rituals as well as municipal administrative offices but has never been finished. 

Glimpsing the full scale of vast Central City Square. | Photo © Darmon Richter

When the Bulgarian Communist Party relinquished its single-party system at the end of 1989 the country slid into a chaotic and economically unstable democracy and many former state projects has been left incomplete. All over Bulgaria are the shells of abandoned construction projects, orphans of a dissolved government but nowhere any come close to the size of Shumen’s Central City Square. The tower, its most visible element, stood between two unfinished blocks which rise behind a security fence established right along the city’s central pedestrian area on Liberation Square. Only by peering over that fence, does one realise that the tower and both blocks are all the same building, joined through lower levels, dug into the hillside, with road access to the site from a street behind. The lower levels of Central City Square extend beneath the street, emerging behind you as tunnel entrances that look like metro stations. Hotel Madara, overlooking the square, was supposed to be connected with underground tunnels that would grant guests easy access to the complex.

Cross sections of Shumen Central City Square. | Drawing via Promisljena estetika (1988) Vol. 1

The street was redeveloped in tangent with the Central City Square project, around the pedestrianised area are motifs thematically connecting it to both the new complex and the monument on the hill above. For instance, the tallest column of the Monument to the Founders of the Bulgarian State is topped with a stylised black granite lion, based on a 7th century carving, a design that is echoed in the streets below, with sculpted bronze lion heads set like sentries along a sheer concrete wall. Opposite the lions, the outer wall of the new complex nods to a culture that predates even the first Bulgarians, Hermes the messenger appears in sculpted relief on the face of what would have been the new post office.

A modernist relief at the subterranean entrance. | Photo © Darmon Richter

This redesign of Shumen city centre was a world apart from the monumental design of previous decades. Nearby, the 1949 Monument to the Red Army on Slavyanski Boulevard was pure, unadulterated socialist-realism; even the 1965 Monument to Freedom leant heavily into safe political territory with its hero figure and engraved hammer-and-sickle motif. 

Western block rises behind an advertising fence.| Photo © Darmon Richter

However, the complex at the heart of this city project was bolder still. Intended to revolutionise Shumen’s urban landscape in ways that would have made this city notable not just by Bulgarian standards, but potentially one of the more advanced urban centres anywhere in the socialist world.

In an interview with Ivan Sivrev appeared in Industrial Aesthetics, Decorative Arts (1988), a monthly magazine published by the Bulgarian State Committee for Science and Technical Progress, the architect described the project as a forum for this 100,000-person city. “Central City Square has been designed as a living organism,” said Sivrev, “the elements of which are interconnected and interdependent just like, figuratively speaking, the organs of a living creature. We intend for Shumen’s centre to materialise as a synthesis between aesthetic, artistic, social, engineering, ecological and other requirements, instilling the rich historical past of Bulgaria into a modern development.”

Ivan Sivrev (right) stands beside a model of Central City Square in 1988.

Sivrev lists the various facilities to be included in the complex “the ‘Man’s Industry’ Fashion House, ‘Pancho Vladigerov’ Festival Complex, the existing Hotel Madara, and on the first underground level, the House of Rituals and Services.” The Festival Complex alone was to feature “concert halls, a club house, recital halls, music rooms, a record shop and musical instrument outlets”, meanwhile, “the House of Rituals and Services consists of three ceremonial halls, a family centre and council offices where various administrative, legislative and technical services shall be provided. There shall be a conference hall with 400 seats and a club restaurant for the administrative workers.”

Preliminary (up left) and final (up right) building plan with silhouettes and cross sections (below). | Drawing via Promisljena estetika (1988) Vol. 1

Other outlets inside the building included tobacconists, pharmaceuticals, a panorama café, coffee shops, a luxury restaurant and nightclub for 250 guests. One particular theme that emerges from the interview is Sivrev’s commitment to environmental issues. The building was designed from the ground up with the goal of combatting congestion and pollution in the city; considerations which had been lacking from many of the Party’s previous large-scale constructions. The Shumen project was to feature open green spaces, rooftop gardens and planted terraces. It was planned with the intention of increasing the size of community green areas. Cascading water would provide a pleasantly refreshing spray in hot summers, while a unified public transport hub would free the neighbouring streets from traffic congestion.

A towering concrete skeleton of the complex today. | Photo © Darmon Richter

This effect would be achieved by moving some of the city’s essential functions underground. “The construction of underground levels is a social necessity” states Sivrev as “underground levels bring mass transportation stops immediately next to the city square without creating a conflict between pedestrians and motor vehicles. They improve usage of public transportation significantly and reduce noise pollution and car emissions.”

The first underground level was planned for public transport stations, flower shops, souvenir and jewellery shops, homewares, perfumes, a national lottery kiosk and ticket offices for Balkan airline, BDZ rail company, Avtotransport coach company. The second underground level was intended to feature a car park for 200 vehicles under the square and a space for 250 vehicles next to Georgi Dimitrov Boulevard. Below that, the third underground level would provide a united storage area for servicing all buildings in the square.

Silhouettes and cross sections along the main core axes of the central structure.  | Drawing via Promisljena estetika (1988) Vol. 1

The project as a whole reflected new ways of thinking about urban space. There are parallels between Ivan Sivrev’s design and the Radiant City proposed by Le Corbusier in 1930, when he exhibited his design for the perfected future metropolis - a linear city formed of standardised blocks, with underground transit routes reducing the surface traffic to allow for an abundance of green spaces. Each block would take the form of a self-contained vertical village containing shops, laundries, even kindergartens. The architect likened his vision to a living organism, composed of interconnected organs working together in harmony.

Le Corbusier’s proposed extent of the Radiant City. | Photo via Stadtstreicher

“I believe we managed to achieve conceptual synergy between urbanisation and architectural-artistic concepts. The development and its attributed buildings create the necessary conditions and allow for creating a unified architectural organism in which all levels and structures are both spatially and functionally connected. This is the very first such development in Bulgaria and it applies the most advanced principles of underground urbanism” is certain Sivrev. His design sketches show that the plan for Shumen Central City Square would have seen it grow considerably larger than what’s visible today. Much like Le Corbusier’s Radiant City the project would remain unrealised and today, those who venture inside will find not utopia, but a sprawling warren of abandoned spaces and twisting concrete corridors.

Unfinished spaces on the easternmost block. | Photo © Darmon Richter

Plants have taken root in some of the airier regions of the complex. | Photo © Darmon Richter

Bulgaria’s communist leader Todor Zhivkov was kicked out by his own party in 1989 in response to a number of growing criticisms throughout the final years of his regime. The rise of nationalism had been a major factor, culminating in Zhivkov’s attempted ethnic cleansing of Turkish and Roma minorities, beside that there had also been serious environmental concerns. Zhivkov had continued his predecessors’ urbanisation schemes, with large-scale industrialisation as cities were rapidly expanded to accommodate new work forces. The state had done little, however, to offset the effect this was having on the environment. By 1989, The Ledger reported that 85% of Bulgaria’s river water and 70% of its farmland had been damaged by industrial wastes and pollutants.

The Danube city of Ruse had it worst of all, when a chemical plant was built across the river at Giurgiu in Romania, it began to exhale toxic gases towards Bulgaria. Soil around the Ruse area was shown to contain concentrations of mineral acid at 40 times over the safe limit. A cloud of chemical gas descended on a Ruse meeting of the Young Pioneer organisation in September 1987, and children as young as seven were seen choking, running for cover with their red neckerchiefs clutched over their mouths. Zhivkov refused to act, however, unwilling to upset his fraternal relationship with the Romanian dictator Nicolae Ceaușescu. The Committee for the Ecological Protection of Ruse was founded, and they began protesting Zhivkov’s lack of solutions. Initially these demonstrations were crushed, Zhivkov allegedly ordered the beating of a group of environmental activists outside an OSCE summit in October 1989, but national dissatisfaction grew. Organised, nationwide protest gave birth to the Ecological Openness movement: a forerunner to the contemporary Bulgarian Green Party.

As Detlef Pollack and Jan Wielgohs note in Dissent and Opposition in Communist Eastern Europe, “On November 3 1989, Ecoglasnost (Ecological Openness) delivered the crucial blow to the Communist political system. At least 10,000 people came and marched to parliament, carrying posters and chanting the word democracy. It was a crucial breakthrough. Just a week following the Ecoglasnost march, Zhivkov was sacked.”

Bare concrete facades on the north side. | Photo © Darmon Richter

Shumen from the rooftops. | Photo © Darmon Richter

Perhaps Shumen’s Central City Square, a Corbusian city of the future, designed for a new ecologically responsible mode for urban living, had been a belated response to the problems. Perhaps it was intended as a trial, as the first of a new wave of ecologically-friendly urban redevelopments, but even if that were the case it was too little, too late.

Even by 1988, the project had reportedly been fraught with difficulties and by disagreements amongst its creative team. Sivrev explained these as “the inability to comprehend the unity and yet simultaneously multi-faceted nature of the development.” One engineer had baulked at the prospect of building the tower and ran away from the project. “Atypical solutions require atypical thinking” Sivrev concluded.

The unfinished tower. | Photo © Darmon Richter

But the final blow came in 1989 when the communist state was dissolved and Shumen’s Central City Square, like so many other unfinished constructions in Bulgaria, had its funding cut off. In place of a unified architectural organism the people of Shumen would be left instead to deal with a colossal, crumbling skeleton.

--

by Darmon Richter [Adapted with permission from Ex Utopia]

#bulgaria #modernism #unfinished

[liliesoftherain]

What do you think the mha characters smell like? Ik it’s an over known thing, but I’m blanking out💀

A/N: Oh my God yes this is so good, so idk if you mean like the bath & body works thing but I have my own headcanons for how they smell so here they gooooo--

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Midoriya: I feel like he worries about his B.O. a lot, so he always makes sure to put on those quick-speed deodorant sticks that have that “fresh scent”. He just wants to make sure he doesn’t smell bad, and he doesn’t really have the time--or knowledge--to wear nice, ‘manly’ cologne. So he doesn’t wear any, he just uses soap haha. I really think he’d smell like the Irish Spring Soap Bar(in the shower he literally will wash his body like 5 times before he gets out like calm down boy please) If you don’t know, Irish Spring is a really clean smell--technically it’s described as “starts with a fresh bergamot and citrus, followed by floral and herbal notes on a woody base”. 

Bakugou: So everyone says because of his quirk he’d smell like caramel, which I mean I love the idea of because I’d love to just go up to him and get a whiff of a sweet smell, the opposite of his unsweet personality. But, his sweat is a nitroglycerin-like substance, so there's a possibility he doesn’t. I believe he really cares about the way he smells, and since his mama raised him right(like my boy has the drip okay, fashionista parents so they’re gonna make sure he smells good too), he uses the good shit. He smells like that crackling firewood smell, that smoky woodsy smell. HE SMELLS LIKE CHANEL EGOISTE, which is described as “opens with a strong projection of tobacco, spicy, and woods. The opening unique, dark, intense, musky, and bold. The tobacco, mahogany, rosewood, cinnamon, and coriander”

Todoroki: Todoroki is a rich boy--he has those expensive colognes, but honestly I don’t think he really cares. Like, he knows he has to smell good because well he doesn’t want to stink, duh--but he won't actively care about how it smells. He makes sure he cleans up properly and when he does go to spray something on, he just uses whatever is there. Of course, it’s all nice things anyway(even if he uses Fuyumi’s perfume, he still ends up smelling good, fruity or not). So in essence, he smells great--he’s got the best of both worlds here, being able to pull off the more ‘masculine’ scents along with the lighter, ‘feminine’ ones. I think he smells like Quorum, described as, “Top notes are Artemisia, Caraway, Lemon, Bergamot, and Grapefruit; middle notes are Pine Tree, Sandalwood, Patchouli, Carnation, Jasmine, and Cyclamen; base notes are Oakmoss, Tobacco, Leather, and Amber. “

Kaminari: He’s the type of dummy who would use any of those good-smelling cologne in those magazines because the ad said how it’ll make you more attractive and desirable and NO ONE CAN CONVINCE ME OTHERWISE OKAY. His normal day-to-day stuff is one of those really sounding cool AXE brands, like AXE Black or AXE Apollo--and lowkey they aren’t bad, he doesn’t overdo it and it smells pleasant enough(I really like Apollo and I have my husband use the body wash okay thanks)Literally search up axe apollo and it states, “it features a fresh, clean scent that combines sage with crisp mandarin and smooth sandalwood to make every guy smell like an irresistible hero.” AN IRRESISTIBLE HERO. You can’t tell me Kaminari wouldn’t EAT THAT SHIT UP. Its full scent is described as, “Top notes are Quince, Clary Sage, and Mandarin Orange; middle notes are Lavender, Violet Leaf, iris and Geranium; base notes are Amber, Sandalwood, Moss, Cashmere Wood, and Vetiver.”

Kirishima: You all may hate me for saying this but as soon as he sees those “manly” commercials for Old Spice, he’s a goner. Uses that shit religiously(when he becomes a famous pro I headcanon this man will have his own scent, RedRiot by Old Spice). If you look up ‘manly scents’  guess what, Old Spice will be there, and a line literally says, “When they get a whiff of you sporting Old Spice they’ll instantly associate you with a time when men were men.” C’mon he’s just as bad as Kaminari he’d eat that shit up so fast and buy an entire set--the deodorant, the spray, the body wash, THE WORKS. He would try the newer stuff, but he is a sucker for the classics, so Old Spice Classic Original it is(Because it smells clean AND manly) which is described as, “Top notes are Nutmeg, Star Anise, Aldehydes, Orange and Lemon; middle notes are Cinnamon, Carnation, Pimento, Geranium, Heliotrope, and Jasmine; base notes are Benzoin, Musk, Vanilla, Tonka Bean, Cedar, and Ambergris.”

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If y’all want any more of my crazy theories just let me know, I loved this.

#bnha #mha #BNHA Headcanons #bnha headcannons #bnha head cannons #bnha headcanon #bnha hc #bnha hcs #mha headcanons #mha head cannons #mha headcanon #mha hc #mha hcs #bnha x reader #mha x reader #izuku midoriya #deku #midoriya #izuku #katsuki bakugou #bakugou #kaachan #bakugou katsuki #katsuki #todoroki shoto #todoroki shouto #todoroki #shoto #shouto #kaminari denki

[ariendiel]

oc aesthetics.

thank for the tag @moderarato, this was a lot of fun! I did it for both Ada and Inès, using green and blue respectively (bold when it goes for both). I'll tag @mistyeyedbi @thatwheelchairchick @bobbyboops @eskiix and @vulnerabledime 🤍

🌿 ADALINE [she/her, LITG] highest aesthetics score: Light - Candle Flames | Body Language - Insecurity & Anxiety | Sense - Touch

✨ INÈS [she/her, LITG]

highest aesthetics score: Light - Stardust | Body Language - Reflective | Sense - Touch

— LIGHT SOURCES

SUN RAYS. effervescent smiles, dandelion puffs, bare feet, beach waves, flowers pressed into books, champagne glasses, rose-gold eye shadow, boho skirts, wire-rimmed glasses, hair in loose waves, kaleidoscope eyes, sunshine in your hair, fire in your soul.

INCANDESCENT BULBS. crop tops, floral print, dancing in the rain, quiet defiance, hand-knit beanies, rosé, painted bookmarks, marble floors, cirrus clouds against a blue sky, polaroid pictures, hands held, fingers intertwined, flower crowns, baby bluebirds.

STARDUST. lace bralettes, brisk breezes, jasmine-scented perfume, books with yellowed pages, tracking constellations, sterling silver, violin music, chess games, iced coffee, glittery dresses, high heels, secret grins, midnight meetings, wishing upon a star.

CANDLE FLAMES. denim jackets, gladiator sandals, braided hair, messenger bags, movies at the cinema, stolen kisses, wax-sealed envelopes, haiku poetry, cherry wood, succulents, fountain pens, jigsaw puzzles, soft tired eyes, hidden smiles, cuddling with someone you trust.

MOONBEAMS. newspapers, over-sized sweaters, dancing shadows, fleece throws, cutoff shorts, piano chords, red wine, messy buns, embossed journals, a hint of blush dusted across your cheeks, freshly fallen snow, tranquil solitude, burning incense.

AURORAS. combat boots, burgundy lips, infectious laughter, spiral-bound notebooks, pencils used down to the stub, ripped jeans, painted nails, cloud-watching, summer thunderstorms, hiking trails, vinyl records, film cameras, skating on a frozen lake, hot chocolate by the fire.

FIREWORKS. dancing until the break of dawn, Heelys, being wheeled around in a shopping cart by your best friend, the euphoria of soaring through the air, being excited for what the future holds, group hugs, colorful tattoos, bronzer-highlighted cheeks, hugging a stuffed animal, lifting a child onto your shoulders, space buns, bright streaks in your hair.

— BODY LANGUAGE

DEFENSIVENESS. arms crossed on chest, crossing legs, fist-like gestures, pointing index finger, karate chops, stiffening of shoulders, tense posture, curling of lip, baring of teeth.

REFLECTIVE. hand-to-face gestures, head tilted, stroking chin, peering over glasses, taking glasses off; cleaning, putting earpiece of glasses in mouth, pipe smoker gestures, putting hand to bridge of nose, pursed lips, knitted brows.

SUSPICION. arms crossed, sideways glance, touching or rubbing nose, rubbing eyes, hands resting on weapon, brows raising, lips pressing into a thin line, strict, unwavering eye contact, wrinkling of nose, narrowed eyes.

CONFIDENCE. hands behind back, hands on lapels of coat, steepled hands, baring teeth in a grin, rolling shoulders, tipping head back but maintaining eye contact, chest puffed up, shoulders back, arms folded just above navel, wide eyes, standing akimbo.

INSECURITY & ANXIETY. chewing pen or pencil, rubbing thumb over opposite thumb, biting fingernails, biting lips, hands in pockets, elbow bent, closed gestures, clearing throat, “whew” sound, picking or pinching flesh, fidgeting in chair, hand covering mouth whilst speaking, poor eye contact, tugging pants whilst seated, jingling money in pockets, tugging at ear, perspiring hands, playing with hair, swaying, playing with pointer; marker; cane, smacking lips, sighing, rocking on balls of feet, flexing or cracking fingers sporadically, leg bouncing.

ANGER & FRUSTRATION. short breaths, “tsk” sounds, tightly-clenched hands, fist-like gestures, pointing index finger, rubbing hand through hair, rubbing back of neck, snarling, revealing teeth, grimacing, sharp-eye glowers, notable tension in brow, shoulders back, head up; defensive posturing, clenching of jaw, grinding teeth, nostrils flaring, heavy exhales.

— SENSES

SIGHT. small towns, big cities, six thirty curfews, lights that take the place of stars, blanket nests, light through the blinds as a wake up call, found family, finding a single star in the middle of new york city, window shopping, watching something terrible and enjoying it, wilted flowers, faded caricatures, bright, bold colors.

HEARING. crickets and lightning bugs, car engines and a.c. units, a phone call to mum/dad, laughing with friends, jokes that are so bad you have to laugh, the clicking of computer keys, noise cancelling headphones, the sound of silence, muffled music from another room, drumming fingertips on a table, clicking of pens, listening to a clock and swearing the ticks get slower, ringing in the ears, the voice of someone you love, pitch shifted songs.

TOUCH. being held close during a long night, fleeting reassurances, holding hands when you’re scared, brushing fingers through strands of hair, freshly dried clothes, bruises on your knuckles, silk and satin, your favorite pet’s fur or feather, wringing your hands anxiously, snuggles, comforters in the dead of winter, nails against skin, cold metal, leather in summer.

TASTE. coffee in the morning, tea in the evening, bubblegum that lost its flavor, alcohol burning the back of your throat, homemade cooking no matter what’s made, blood in your mouth, stale air, mint, fresh vegetables, that processed taste of citrus candy, the first meal you cook by yourself that tastes good, foreign sweets, fast food, bittersweet, sour, spicy, sweet, bitter, too much salt on fries.

#oc adaline #oc inès #tag game

[twstedbeauty]

Twisted Wonderland Pokemon AU Pt. 1

No one asked for this, but I couldn’t get this thought out of my brain. So I thought I would share it with all of you! This is just what I think the Dorm Leader’s main Pokemon would be, so I guess it’s pretty much their partner Pokemon. I’ll divide this into three parts; Dorm Leaders, Vice Dorm Leaders and Dorm Members!

DISCLAIMER: THESE ARE JUST MY OPINIONS AND JUST MADE FOR HARMLESS FUN. IT’S OKAY IF YOU DISAGREE WITH ANY OF MY CHOICES! I’D LOVE TO HEAR WHAT YOU ALL THINK~♡

Dorm Leaders + Main Pokemon

Riddle Rosehearts - Bisharp 

What can I say? Bisharp’s face looks like a huge axe and I thought it was fitting for the whole “Off With Your Head” thing. Another potential candidate I was considering was Roserade or maybe Tsareena, but in the end I went with Bisharp. 

“It's accompanied by a large retinue of Pawniard. Bisharp keeps a keen eye on its minions, ensuring none of them even think of double-crossing it.”

Sounds pretty familiar, doesn’t it? An efficient, ruthless Pokemon keeping close eye on it’s followers to ensure they don’t fall out of line? That’s exactly what Riddle was doing in Chapter 1. 

Plus, it can learn the move Guillotine. Nuff said.

Leona Kingscholar - Luxray (Shiny) 

I have no excuse for this one either. It’s a yellow and black lion, so of course I thought it was fitting for the character twisted from freaking Scar. Plus, I feel like Pyroar is more fitting for his brother Fareena? Shiny Luxray seems fitting for a Pokemon equivalent of Scar, while a normal Pyroar looks more akin to Mufasa. 

“Seeing through solid objects uses up a lot of Luxray's electricity, so the Pokémon sleeps for long periods of time to store up energy.”

A big yellow and black lion that sleeps for long periods of time. Yeah, that’s definitely a Pokemon for Leona. I can just see the two of them napping together in the botanical gardens. 

Azul Ashengrotto - Malamar 

HA! You thought I was going to give him a Tentacruel or an Octillery, didn’t you? THINK AGAIN. MALAMAR AIN’T EVEN A WATER TYPE EITHER. 

But in all seriousness, aside from the fact that it’s themed after a squid, there is a reason I think it’d be a good Pokemon for Azul. 

“It wields the most compelling hypnotic powers of any Pokémon, and it forces others to do whatever it wants.” This Pokemon is absolutely terrifying. It’s able to brainwash people and make it do whatever it was. For someone like Azul, who thrives on screwing people over just to further his own goals, a Pokemon like Malamar would make deals go a lot smoother. 

(Also, Malamar’s pre-evolution Inkay is so cute and unassuming, so I thought it be a fitting first Pokemon for baby Azul. They both eventually change into something you don’t want to mess with.) 

Kalim Al-Asim - Panpour 

Probably not the choice you thought it’d be, right? Well, given that Kalim’s power centers around creating water, I thought that a Water Type Pokemon would be fitting for him. But I was also considering his whole theme around Aladdin and thought about Abu, so all I needed to do was find a Pokemon that would fit both themes. 

And then I remembered the Elemental Monkeys. 

“It does not thrive in dry environments. It keeps itself damp by shooting water stored in its head tuft from its tail.” Now see, this is interesting because Kalim comes from the Land of Hot Sands. It would be VERY dry over there, definitely not a good place for a Panpour...unless you happen to have unique magic centered around water. I can just imagine Kalim making it rain for his Panpour and the two of them playing in it together. They’d be so cute!

Vil Schoenheit - Salazzle 

A beautifully deadly Pokemon for a beautifully deadly Queen!

When I first started thinking about this idea, Vil was the first character I assigned a Pokemon and Salazzle just fits him so well. Just look at it! 

“Filled with pheromones, its poisonous gas can be diluted to use in the production of luscious perfumes.”

SO NOT ONLY DOES THIS POKEMON MAKE A HAREM OF ITS MALES, BUT IT’S POISONOUS GAS CAN BE PUT IN PERFUMES. TELL ME THIS POKEMON ISN’T MADE FOR VIL.

I can just SEE this thing lounging on Vil’s lap like a big cat as he sits in his throne in Pomefiore, secretly judging everyone around it. 

Idia Shroud - Rotom 

I’ll admit, Idia was probably the hardest for me to pair with a Pokemon. He’s still a bit of a mystery to me. I know his big thing is technology and video games, so I knew an Electric type would fit the best. Then I finally settled on Rotom. It’s Ghost and Electric, which I thought was fitting for Idia. 

“Its electric-like body can enter some kinds of machines and take control in order to make mischief.”

You’d think that a Pokemon like this would be a nightmare for a programmer like Idia, but I think the opposite. I think Idia would work with Rotom and build machines for it to inhabit just like in the games. He and his Rotom work together, so their bond is pretty close. 

Also, I can just see Idia siccing Rotom on people that annoy him to mess up their Wi-Fi or fry their phone. 

Malleus Draconia - Dragonite (Shiny) 

...I can explain. 

Look, I know that there are a LOT of very powerful and intimidating Dragon types in the Pokemon roster. I know that I could have given him a legendary Pokemon if I wanted to, but just hear me out...

...No one would ever expect the next King of the Valley of Thorns and descendant of Maleficent herself to have a dopey looking Dragonite as his main Pokemon. 

You’d see Malleus and be like “Oh, I bet he’s got such a powerful Pokemon! He looks so intimdating!” AND THEN HE SENDS OUT THIS THING. BIGGEST PLOT TWIST EVER. 

That and plus it’s color’s fit with Maleficent cough

Also, his Dragonite’s name is Gao-Gao. No, I do not take criticism. 

#twisted pokemon au #pokemon #twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #twst #twsted wonderland #riddle rosehearts #leona kingscholar #azul ashengrotto #kalim al asim #vil schoenheit #idia shroud #malleus draconia

[araingirl]

Two worlds, one story: Kai Vs. Hil!

The battleground which was intersecting both the realm of water and the empire of fire was almost empty-of living beings. The grasses were thirstily drinking the blood which was shed on its craggy, ruthless surface by hundreds of valiant warriors hailing from both Kaen and Hiawatha. A few trees were surrounding the field, losing almost all their branches and leaves, all thanks to the swords and arrows of the troopers. Though the corpses of the martyrs were taken away from the arena, the gray pitch of the ground was still red as if the petals of thousands of dianthus and red tulips had decorated a bed there. Seeing the play of destruction, when the sun had felt embarrassed and hid its glowing face behind the gloomy clouds, it could never have been known.

Then again, neither the weather nor the cruel sight of the battlefield could bother the two young warriors present there. One was on the back of a giant elephant which was bellowing, raising its trunk in the air now and then. She was wearing silver armors, covering her arms, chest, waist, wrists and ankles which were hiding her navy-blue kunoichi under them. Her right hand was holding a short, bronze crescent axe seeing which anyone could mistake it as the moon. Facing her, there was a black horse, ridden by a dual-haired 16-year-old prince, adorned with golden breastplate, belt, wrist-cuffs, armguards and knee-cuffs, along with the white scarf round his neck and his well-toned mesomorphic, godlike body structure peeping out of the armors. Holding a golden longsword studded with a ruby at the handle, he was viciously staring at the flaring ruby orbs with his amethyst ones. The whirling gust of wind revolved there, ruffling their chocolate and smoky tresses.

“So,” The teenager princess of Hiawatha smirked, standing up on the back of the elephant, “Kai Hiwatari, the prince of Kaen.”

“Afraid so, princess.” The dual-haired prince sneered, tightly clutching his sword.

“Ready for the duel?” She stretched the cleaver towards the prince of the fire kingdom.

“Always.”

He stood up on the back of his animal, so did she. Both the beasts rumbled. The giant lifted its trunk and two legs in the air. Nonetheless, the brunette didn’t feel a bit difficulty to maintain her balance. Seeing the prowess of the elephant, the black, sturdy stallion also galloped, neighing furiously. Not wasting a single moment, both the brunette and the dual-haired guy sprang towards each other from the backs of their beasts as the latter ones retreated, giving space to their masters to battle. They landed on the ground like a pair of hyperbolas intersecting each other as their weapons collided.

“Tung!”

They held the wrists of each other so that their opponent couldn’t operate the weapon. The axe and the sword created an “X”. From their gap, Kai could see a pair of furious rubies. Lips were folded, teeth were clenched. He felt so amused unknowingly as her hot breaths tickled his nose. They both were struggling to get rid of their respective opponent, their feet weren’t fixed on the ground. They were moving circularly, bit by bit which meant that they were trying their best to maintain balance but they were failing in it eventually. Nonetheless, they were facing much toughness to separate the axe from the sword. Like, they were connected to each other since births and rebirths.

Suddenly, the brunette fell back, getting shoved by her archenemy. Her back met the ground as he met her gazes, landing on her. His sword was placed right at her throat. They were so close that she couldn’t understand which exhalation belonged to her and which to him. His amethysts were leaning on her rubies. Hers were confused, a bit nervous and shivering in an anonymous feeling. On the other hand, his were bewitched. A strange perfume, maybe, belonging to the wild roses, was coming from her body. His was emitting the flavor of mint. Amidst the blood, tears and piles of destruction, they were lying there in that position. Hiromi gritted her teeth, not liking being dominated at all. However, the phoenix-prince wasn’t that proud to dominate her, his blank facial expressions were saying so.                

“Ah!”

Before understanding anything, the dual-haired prince discovered himself blowing in the air as his back smit one of the large rocks littered there. Yes, the brunette had placed a firm kick at his guts, or say, just kneed it. With a jolt, she stood up, he too as neither of them liked to keep fallen on the ground for much time. Again, like a tiger and tigress, they rushed towards each other from the opposite directions. For the second time, the crescent axe and the sword, emitting the glow of the ever-radiant sun, clashed against each other very brutally, eager to quench the blood of their respective opponent. Not for so many seconds, this time, they again parted. Their hands kept rotating clockwise and anticlockwise, in different directions.

“Tung!”

“Ting!”

“Sleesh!”

Holding the slender waist of the brunette, the fire-prince twirled her and effortlessly pinned her against a nearby tree. Though her hand was still holding the crescent axe, she had no way to operate it. Again, grasping her between the dry stem and the shiny, metal blade of his weapon, he smirked in his would-be victory which was seeming not so far from him. Hiromi was writhing against his clutches to be free but damn, his beefy arms contained so much energy that she couldn’t break their shackles around her nape and waist. Gritting her jaw, she gave him a venomous stare but Kai already had his antidote against that. Sneering, he remarked, “Get ready to bid farewell to your beloved Hiawatha, princess Hiromi.”

.......................

What after it? ;) 

#Two worlds one story #KaiXHilary #KaiHil

[aglaecan]

@anyzek

𝙷𝙴 𝙷𝙰𝙳 𝙱𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝙿𝚁𝙴𝙿𝙰𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙴𝙰 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙷𝙾𝙿.  Not for any thirst, of course, but because it is a ritual that he enjoys, and setting each instrument now on the tray makes a satisfying sound of motion. Kettle, saucer, cup, and spoon. A small creampot of milk. He had sensed her approaching, a curious and unfamiliar sort of signature, but only vaguely. The bell above the door had startled sweetly, but Regis had not warned her away as she played at browsing his stocks like any other customer, despite the fact that it was, technically, after-hours. Though punctual by nature, the Higher Vampire is not particularly concerned with measuring the hours.

   For two such as they, it is a bit of an anachronism.

   Regis picks up the tray, not bothering to inject the motion with a slight fabrication of unsteadiness as he might in the presence of a human. At her warning, he hums softly in acknowledgment. “Difficult to untangle anything with too many sets of hands, don’t you find?”

   There is a sharp, dangerous slant to her face in the backlit space of the doorway. The lights in the street are thrown across her features which are, he intuits, deceptive in their naturally scenic softness. Even for one of their approximate kind, she is uncommonly beautiful. Not unlike a Bruxa in her impression: how brutality and sensuality seem so easily to serve one another. By the smell of the blood in her, she is not a Bruxa. No Bruxae he has ever known have possessed such an ability of presence. Indeed, the space around her is suffused with a distractingly dark and honeyed warmth.

   By comparison, Regis imagines she must find him a dreadful disappointment.

   His own impression is cool and mild. Perhaps even stuffy. Black trousers cut neatly close against long legs, a soft navy sweater, the faint wave of his thick dark hair coiffed in an orderly sweep across his hairline. He has no beard, no drama, no ornament but for a silver Calatrava worn high on his left wrist. Beautiful at a long look, certainly, but nothing so striking as she. He is deliberate in containing his own thrall. Regis considers it something of a type of courtesy, though it will also serve to disguise a measure of his register that she may or may not be capable of noting.

   “You are welcome to return at your leisure,”  he gestures to the space around them, the shop and the street and the city. He could, if he desired, disappear in the interim. No doubt she would recover his trail in time were she motivated to do so, though a lack of carnage left behind due to his chosen lifestyle does allow Regis a particular ability to ghost across the world unseen. He has been in London this turn only half a decade. It will be a half a decade more before he is likely to move again.  “I will be here.”

   His black eyes gleam good-naturedly.

   “During business hours, of course.”

   Regis turns his back to her, the tea tray in his hands, preparing to climb the narrow staircase to his flat above. He pauses at the darkened threshold and lifts his head, drawing in a breath of air for the first time since she had entered. It had seemed wiser not to allow the clearly orchestrated smell of her to drive him to any distraction—but now that she has dismissed herself, he lifts his head and scents the air visibly, almost involuntarily, and then turns across his shoulder.

   “Your perfume is remarkable. Will you tell me who produced it?”

Death had three faces.

Death, rot, and rebirth. The Clan Hecata, in their several parts, bore the faces of Death into the nights; named for the three-faced Witch Goddess they were, named for their mastery of death, for their inhabiting of it, for their reverence of it. Plutonic they were, plumbing death’s secrets, gathering death’s riches. It was beautiful, death; in its surcease of agonies, in its relief offered. It was beautiful, death, in its fragility and its change, in its place, not of primacy but nevertheless of import, in the cycle of all things.

The Hecata were both of that cycle, and outside it. They were beautiful also, or so Beatrice di Giovanni had always thought, in their stasis and preservation. They were the corpse embalmed in sweet oils. They were the butterfly pinned to the board. They were a flower, pressed between the leaves of a book. They were painted frescoes encased in a volcano’s ash and kept, kept until the picks and axes of the archaeologists broke their bright colors once again into the air. They were oil of civit and ambergris, they were the enfleurage and the essentials; they were the ghosts, bottled sweetly, of what was long dead.

They were both more than human, and less than. They were both dead, and less than.

Some of the eldest among them were like this man. Quiet, still. Reserved. Watchful. Some of the eldest among them were little more than corpses which moved, it was true; they had forgotten or discarded the habits of humanity, they had touched Void too deeply and come back changed by it. But others… Beatrice’s own sire was in some ways much like this man, Lorenzo, called il Magnifico. His approval, hard to glean but worth more than jewels once it had been; his habits, ascetic and clean; his manner, reserved and reserving, also, of judgment. 

She would not underestimate this quiet man, with his tray of tea and the glint in his eye which spoke to her of both humor and an observant intelligence. She would not make the mistake so many less well-taught than she had made, of assuming that the only power which was power was that which was visible and showy, obvious. In her experience among the Famiglia, indeed, the opposite was far more often true; those who made too much a show of their power, among the Kindred, the Clans of Caine, did not long survive the modern nights. Their own children ate them, or the humans showed them to the sun.

Her curiosity about this man was not sated; far from it. But the hour drew on, and she could not remain much longer. “Two pairs of hands,” she said, “to detangle the threads spun and woven. Two pairs to wind them. A third, perhaps, to cut them to length.” Beatrice smiled slightly. “But first, there is the winding of it, and the measuring.”

She watched him as he began to mount the stairs, a long lean figure in his plain clothing, his aura one kept tight and closer to him. Her stillness was not sham; supernally calm, her mind’s defenses high by her blood and her ability, Beatrice considered him, and smiled, very slightly, when he paused to ask about her perfume.

“I did,” she answered softly. “With my own hands. Perfumery is a…” she paused, as if searching for words, then smiled again, “passion of mine.”

#anyzek #shoves this at you

[bowieandqueen11]

Glad I Met You / Richie Tozier Imagine

Request: That imagine with Richie at the Chinese restaurant was really cute! I'd like to see a follow-up imagine after the Paul Bunyan statue chased Richie and he's freaking out over it. Y/N smirks and says 'that damn clown will have to do more than that to stop us'. Richie finds that hot and pins Y/N to the wall, making out with her. All of a sudden, they're interrupted by a laughing Beverly.

Oh. My. God this is incredible thank you so so much for this XD

Also, someone else requested a part 2 to this imagine, so there will be another different version coming out soon with the roles flipped!

Richie rubs at his eyes, his large hands fumbling to take his glasses as he feels as if someone is jamming hot pins right into his eyeballs, pain flaring in his skull as he sits down at the park bench, not daring to believe the grass around his feet has been turfed up, the dirt sprayed over the field as worms wriggle free like tiny maggots. Daring to look up again, his eyes bloodshot and his face flushed from the effort of trying to take in straggling breaths, Richie warbles out a soft sigh of relief to see the Bunyan statue firmly in place, its red chequered shirt glowing like splattered blood in the unforgiving Derry rays, and its piercing, unmoving eyes and dead smile gazing down at Richie, making him shiver. However, the axe stuck to his shoulder doesn’t move, and Richie dares to relax a little against the park bench, shrugging off his jacket with white, trembling hands, not feeling the splinter snag against his fingertips until the fat red droplets plop freely onto the ground.

Gazing around, he wishes he had been clever enough not to come back to this place, wishing he wasn’t so anxious and so scared that he felt he had to prove himself to the Loser’s Club, his eyes catch a red brick alley opposite him, the little slit at the side of Mr Keen’s Pharmacy. The same pharmacy he had met you that fateful day, the day you had stumbled upon him standing next to a bloody and bruised Ben as Eddie, Bill and Stan scrambled inside the shop looking for supplies. The only day he had been truly at a loss for words, his eyes growing wide and making you laugh, only magnified by his thick glasses that made him look like Eggbert from Looney Tunes, his mouth unhinging into a small o-shape as he stared at you, his cheeks burning and his fingers clenching at his side as his throat constricted as if butterflies were flapping against his neck. It was the first, and last time he had truly experienced what love was.

He reaches up to itch against his stubble, the humidity and memory making him feel uncomfortable as the Derry heat makes his mustard shirt stick to his back, wishing he had been brave enough all those years ago to whisk you away from this dirt hole. To live the life he had always wanted. He’s broken out of his daydream by a whisper in the wind that seems to surround him, a cruel, sharp noise that seems to fill the clear air of Derry like a chant, like a curse as he glances up in confusion, placing his glasses back on the tip of his nose and covering some of the wrinkles of his forehead. He gasps, bumping his back against the wood with a sick thud as his foot slides across the drying, yellow grass that looked as if it had been poisoned years ago, his mouth opening in shock as he watches a multitude of balloons, hundreds, perhaps even thousands float down from the sky, carried by the cruel wind, uncomfortably vibrant against the blue skies. He squeezes his eyes shut, making as if to move but finding his legs won’t listen to him, fear overcoming his body and making his muscles tremble as he frowns, his breaths shallow and rough as he swallows roughly.

A loud pop makes him open his eyes, the fear subsiding from his swirling eyes as he sees you standing in front of him, the tattered remains of a balloon reading ‘I love Derry’ splattered over your shoes as you gaze down at him, apprehension and something unmistakably akin to pain lining your face as you reach a hand out, calling Richie forward with your fingers as he manages to lift a pale hand towards you, gripping your skin tightly like a lifeline. Pulling him up, he surprises you by collapsing into you, nearly knocking the two of you onto your bottoms as his giant weight looms over you, his arms heavy as they wrap tightly around your shoulders, his fingers digging desperately into your muscles. He walks the two of you backwards quickly, away from the statue as he nestles his head into your neck, whispering light ‘oh god, y/n, it was horrible, it was just like before’ into your neck like a mantra. You reach up to lightly brush the stray chocolate curls that fall into his pained, lost eyes away from his face, your touch hesitant and tender so as not to scare him. You smirk as he looks down at you like a lost child, reminding you of that scared little boy who constantly used to crack jokes and gush terrible voices all those years ago. The scared little boy who only wanted to be loved, and so showed affection the only way he knew how. You smirk lightly, your fingers dancing over his skin, tracing the curve of his cheek to land on his chin, swirling nonsense patterns and revelling in the soft sigh that escapes his lips as you whisper,  'that damn clown will have to do more than that to stop us.’

Richie’s heart hitches up a notch, his breath catching familiarly in his throat as his hands clench against the coarse fabric of your silky shirt. ‘God, y/n, why did I ever let you leave.’ 

Before you can answer, Richie has jumped forward, one knee raised up in between your thighs, his hands rushing off your shoulders to grab your wrists, pinning them against the harsh brick that scrapes against your knuckles. He watches you for a second, nearly surprised by his own actions, his brown eyes glistening as they dilate slowly, his breathing shallowing out as the butterflies return to flutter and fizz in the pit of the stomach as his gaze finally lands on your plump lips, subconsciously wetting his own. The next thing you knew, he had slammed his lips to yours and nearly knocked all the air out of your lungs. You understand why his leg was pressed against you now, collapsing down onto it as stars fill your vision, dancing their glittering golden dance as he presses his tongue to the seam of your lips and, as you grant your access, delved inside your mouth. He’s surprised by his own audacity, his own directness as he pushes you further against the wall, his thumb tenderly stroking your wrist as his hips bang against yours, pushing you further and further against his broad chest until there was no breathing room left, your back arching up towards the heat that radiates from him, revelling in the slight moans that roll off his tongue. Unexpectedly, his hand drifts to your hip, settling itself there and pulling you closer. He began nuzzling your neck with delicate kisses, so faint, you swore they were like whispers, little sweet nothings that he had been bottling up inside him as he smiled against your skin, the smell of your perfume intoxicating as your body nearly fell limp into his comfortable grasp.

The sound of laughter breaks you two apart, and Richie nearly stumbles backwards as his head whips round violently, biting his lip as a frown twitches on his face, his glasses slipping down the brow of his nose as Beverly stands behind the two of you, her arms crossed and her hair glowing as her head lies hung back in laughter, her chest shaking as she manages to stutter out, ‘of all the sights I expected to see today in Derry, this was not one of them. Took you two long enough, and you picked such a romantic time, Richie. Nothing like a killer clown to set the heart on fire.’

@disneyfan567, @howelloutforharambe, @humanroombas, @bisexuaivalkyrie, @riisten, @super-who-dat , @teddy-the-platypus

#bill hader #richie tozier #richie tozier imagine #it 2019 #it chapter 2 #it (2019) #it chapter two #it 2017 #finn wolfhard #it: chapter 2 #it: chapter two #it movie #losers club #losers club imagine #tozier #richie #richie tozier x reader #richie tozier fluff #richie tozier smut #pennywise

[engagemachine]

Everything is too loud and too dark; the bass thunders so hard she feels as though it throbs inside her like a second heart, pulsing somewhere low in her underbelly.

Taylor can’t remember why she had decided to come, only that Ashley Phillips—who had never spoken to her before this—had stopped her in the cafeteria and handed her a slip of college-ruled paper, something torn from somebody’s notebook in a hurry. An address.

“You should come,” she’d said, friendly and sweet. She had soft hair and pretty, straight teeth—one of the few lucky enough to forgo the necessity of braces. “This Friday, eight o’clock.” Taylor couldn’t think of any reason not to. She’d never been invited to a party before.

But as she wanders aimlessly through the dark, crowded home of some senior named Andrew, she quickly realizes how out of place she is, how much she stands out. Everyone is way older than her. She’s probably the only freshman here. Why did Ashley even invite her?

She combs her way through the living room. Her throat clogs with cigarette smoke and sweat and something girlish and cloying, like strawberry peach perfume, that cheap kind that comes in the plastic spray bottles. She wonders if maybe this is all some elaborate joke. Maybe they just wanted to see if she was dumb enough to even bother showing up. Maybe this is a prank and she’s too stupid to realize she’s the punchline.

She sinks her teeth into her lower lip and squeezes between throngs of junior and seniors, feeling out of place and small as everyone laughs and chugs back red Solo cups. She rubs her slick hands against the thighs of her jeans, jeans that don’t fit like the other girls’ do. She’d had to punch an extra hole in her belt just to hold them up. But she’d borrowed a shirt from Meredith’s dresser, something floral with puff sleeves, little buttons up the front. Her boobs don’t fill it out like Meredith’s do, but she supposes it doesn’t matter anyway; she hasn’t taken off her windbreaker yet.

She works her way into the kitchen where there’s chips and cans of beer sprawled on sand-colored countertops, like windblown trash scattered on the beach. There’s a happy, little man in an oversized chef’s hat on the countertop next to the toaster oven, holding an empty cardboard roll of paper towels in his outstretched hands. In big fancy script on the breadbox, Let’s Eat!, and a red and white striped dish towel hanging over the handle for the oven door. The kitchen screams of a woman’s touch—Andrew’s mom—and Taylor wonders suddenly how her own mother might have decorated, if their kitchen would’ve had a theme like this one. Wonders what it would have felt like to grow up with a pantry stocked full of food, all the time, or the privilege of satisfying those sweet-sleepy after-midnight cravings, slinking into the kitchen to spoon out some ice-cream, or a late-night bowl of cereal, something with a sugary crunch.  

The dining room table has been shoved against the wall to accommodate the crowd gathered around some kid doing a keg-stand, spurred by the raucous shouts of encouragement from his friends. He isn’t wearing a shirt. She thought that was only something people did in movies. She edges herself through the sliding glass doors and spills out onto the patio, where a few others have congregated as well. It’s quieter out here. Peaceful. There’s a group gathered around a small bonfire in the grass near the shed, lounging in plastic fold out chairs, like the ones you’d take camping, and others linger on the patio, smoking and drinking. There’s a couple near the edge of the patio, some guy with his tongue down Amelia Baker’s throat, his hands in the back pockets of her jeans. Taylor quickly looks away, embarrassed.

The air is chilly and cold, and she welcomes its sharp bite. The sky stretches out wide and black above her, blinking and alive with stars. She takes a moment to wonder at it, exhaling slowly, watching as her breath is carried away, into the night. She remembers in second grade in science class when she’d made her own starry night, a giant black piece of construction paper that she’d poked little tiny holes into with the tip of her pen, hundreds of them, and then holding the paper up to the ceiling, watching all the holes fill with artificial light.  

“Hey, pretty girl, glad you could make it.”

Taylor spins around and looks up at Ryan Henderson, a senior she’s passed in the halls at school a couple of times. She thinks he runs track and might have a couple of classes with Nathan.

“Hi,” she says, shyly. He’s never talked to her before. She didn’t even know he knew she existed. And he just called her pretty.  

“Seen you around at school. Taylor, right?”

She nods twice, bites her lower lip as she watches him approach the railing. He leans his side against it, casual and easy, and looks at her. He smells like spearmint gum and Axe body spray.

“I wasn’t sure if you were going to show.” When she pushes her brows together in confusion, her lips parting in some unspoken question, he fills in the gaps. “I told Ashley to invite you. Thought you’d be more likely to come if she asked.”

Taylor swallows. Ryan wanted her to come? She flushes under his gaze, averts her eyes to the red, tripod grill in the corner of the patio, like she meant to look there.

Ryan laughs a little, and she is drawn back to him as he fishes a cigarette and lighter from the pocket of his jeans. He’s cute—tall—with wavy brown hair and pretty blue eyes. She knows a lot of girls who have crushes on him. He’s wearing a pine green sweatshirt—the three buttons at the top undone—that looks cozy and soft. She bets it smells like him.

He secures the cigarette between pink, bow-shaped lips and cups his hand around the opposite end as he lights it. It glows orange for a moment as he inhales, and then all the smoke is billowing out, swirling into the night, and there’s something strangely hypnotic about it, the rise and fall of his chest, the loose, easy way he holds the cigarette, and the glimmer in his eyes as he looks at her. He sees her eyeing his cigarette and holds it out to her after taking another drag.

“You want to try?”

“Oh, no.” Taylor shakes her head. She licks her lips, dry all the sudden. “Evelyn will kill me if I come home smelling like smoke….”

Ryan cocks his head. “Evelyn?”

“My foster mom,” she explains, regretting the words as soon as they leave her mouth. Stupid. She should have just said “my mom”, now he’ll think she’s some loser foster kid without real parents.

“Right.” Ryan exhales again, and she doesn’t miss the way his eyes sweep over her, up, down, and then up again. He takes one last drag of his cigarette, and then crushes it on the railing. Taylor frowns at this, because he just lit it. He flicks it away, so that it lands somewhere in the dark sea of grass.

“You want something to drink?” he asks.

“Oh, I—”

“Come on, I’ll get you something.” He straightens and clambers down the porch steps, and Taylor hesitates only briefly before following after him.

He leads her to the group lounging around a makeshift fire pit, which is little more than a ring of misshapen rocks. One of the boys is feeding small branches into the fire to keep it going, sitting on the edge of his chair, prodding at the fire with a stick. A girl in a miniskirt and leather jacket is curled up in the lap of who Taylor assumes is her boyfriend, and her legs look smooth and tan in the glow from the fire. Taylor looks around at the rest of them, a hodgepodge of teenage boys and a few other girls. She recognizes only some of them.

Ryan introduces her to them and then tells her everyone’s names even though she won’t remember them. He explains that some of them are from Ridgepoint, in Old Town. She gives them all a little wave which makes one of the boys snort and shoot Ryan a look that Taylor doesn’t know how to interpret. She folds her arms behind her back and doesn’t know what to do.

Ryan gestures for one of the guys to move so Taylor can have his chair. She mumbles her thanks as she takes his proffered seat, and Ryan plops beside her chair onto the hard ground, surrounded by dead clumps of grass. He’s almost the same height as her even though he’s on the ground and she’s in the chair.

The fire is warm and the smoke smells good, and she tries to allow herself to relax a little and not worry her bottom lip so much, even if there’s something comforting about laving her tongue over the indents her teeth have left on her lower lip.  

“Let’s get you something to drink,” Ryan says conspiratorially, leaning in, looking up into her eyes in a way that makes Taylor’s cheeks turn hot. One of the guys tosses him a white can which Ryan catches with one hand. The top pops open with a wet hiss. Taylor watches the gold lettering on the side glimmer in the firelight, like something forbidden, something dangerous.

“You ever had beer before?” he asks, and she shakes her head. “Ah, an alcohol virgin,” he says, knowingly, just a little too loudly for her comfort. Some of them chuckle, and Taylor sinks into her chair in a way she hopes isn’t obvious, blushing so hard, trying to ignore the prickle of unease slithering up her spine. She hates the way he said virgin, like her lack of foray into alcohol isn’t the only thing virgin about her.  

“Here.” He hands the can to her, and Taylor holds it with as few fingers as possible, as if it’s something that suddenly might grow fangs and sink razor sharp teeth into her. “Come on, honey, take a little sip,” he says, softly, so only she can hear.

She looks at him, his eyes dark in the firelight, and brings the can to her lips, tilting her head back to swallow. She grimaces as it slides down her throat, as the taste settles in her mouth, bitterness bleeding all over her tongue.

“Eugh,” she gags. It tastes nasty. She spits out her tongue and grimaces. “I don’t like that.” She holds the can out to him, but he pushes it back into her lap.

“The first taste is always kind of gross,” he says. “I have something that might make it go down a little easier.”

She frowns at him. “What is it?” Ryan reaches into his jacket and retrieves two little white pills, nestled in the palm of his hand. She cocks her head. “What are those?”

“They make everything feel better.” He reaches for her free hand and pushes them into her palm, and she instinctively closes her fingers over them so they don’t fall on the ground.

“I—I don’t know if I should,” she says, hesitant, meeting his gaze.

“I take them all the time. They’re really good.”

The fire crackles and pops, sparks shooting up into the dark expanse of open sky as one of the boys tosses a fresh log onto the fire. There’s the dimming of the flames as the existing fire crumbles beneath the new added weight, and then the burgeoning brightness as the flames lap at the wood, licking it up faster and faster, as if excited by the taste.

“How will they make the beer taste better?” she asks.

Ryan huffs, shifting closer to her. He seems a little agitated, having to explain. “They just do. They make everything taste good and everything else just feels… light.” Taylor still looks unconvinced, so he goes on. “It’ll help you loosen up a little. Make you happy.” He looks down at the ground for a moment, and she catches him biting his tongue. He fixes her with a smile when he looks back up. “I bet you’re real cute when you smile.”

Taylor exhales, caught in the ocean of his eyes. The moment feels hypercharged and heady, like it’s just the two of them here and no one else. She wants to know what it’s like to feel light, what it might be like to breathe with four sets of lungs instead of two, how it might feel to suddenly grow wings, the foreign sensation of needing to anchor herself to the ground before she floats up and away. The fantasy of flight.

She takes both of them at once, and because she can’t dry swallow, chases them down with a large gulp of beer.

She makes a face. “It still doesn’t taste good.”

Ryan laughs. Taylor likes the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he does. “They don’t work instantly. Give it some time.”

So she does, or maybe she doesn’t at all. The night becomes an intangible thing, something distant and kind of faraway, like being in a dream, but knowing that you’re in one. Ryan was right—she does feel light, like cotton candy. She remembers laughing along with everyone about—about something, it doesn’t seem to  matter now—only that everyone is smiling, and she is smiling too, and it’s nice, and the world takes on a warm, honeyed glaze. The edges of her vision are sticky sweet. It’s difficult to focus her gaze on any one thing for more than a few seconds. There’s the sagging pile of wood stacked against the side of the shed, the warm, dying frenzy of sparks from the fire, and when she tilts her head back to laugh, the starlight sky, a black, endless canopy. Ryan hands her more beer, and she drinks it. The letters on the side of the can swirl into golden spirals she can’t read. She’s lost track of how many she’s had. And she hardly notices the taste, after a while; she kind of likes the way it makes the back of her throat tingle, how hot it makes her belly feel.  

After a while, some of the group starts to thin out, people leaving in pairs of two. There’s only a couple of guys left now. She feels Ryan playing with her shoelaces, where he kneels at her feet. He looks up at her intently, and Taylor’s too dizzy to really meet his gaze head on.

“How are you feeling?”

She starts to reply but is interrupted by a hiccup. She giggles. “Really good.” Is she slurring? It’s hard to tell. She frowns a little and tries again. “Really—really good.”

“Yeah,” Ryan says. He licks his lips. “I thought you might.”

She thinks he says something about going inside, that it’s cold, and she doesn’t resist when he pulls her up from her chair. His arm around her back feels good—big and warm. She nuzzles into his sweatshirt, hears the sliding glass door open. He smells like spearmint gum. At some point, there’s stairs, but she doesn’t remember walking up them. Then, something soft beneath her, a fluffy cloud, or maybe a bed.

Everything is dark and warm. The bass is still thumping from downstairs, the walls vibrating from it, but she doesn’t mind it as much as before. Ryan slides up the bed alongside of her, and she feels his hands on her as he unzips her jacket, pulling her arms out of the sleeves. They flop lifelessly back onto the bed when he lets them go—that makes her giggle again.

“I feel like—a doll,” she slurs. Something in her hindbrain tells her this should be concerning, her lack of control over her own body mechanics, but she ignores it. Ryan is so big and warm next to her. She feels like taking a nap.

Hands on her again, this time fumbling with her belt, and then unbuttoning her jeans. She tries to sit up.

“Hey, what are—what are you doing?” Hard to sit up, her brain sloshing around inside her skull, too heavy to hold up for some reason.

“Just wanna touch you a little,” Ryan says, breathy, “Lay back. It’ll feel good.”

Taylor tries to do what he says, but she gasps when he slips his hand inside her jeans, cupping her through her underwear. She squirms beneath his touch, not sure if she likes it or not.

“Sh, sh, just relax,” he says. She feels one of his fingers probing down there, and she whimpers and arches away. Only Nathan’s ever touched her there.

“St—stop,” she says. Now she can hear her own voice, all shaky and slurry. “I don’t wanna… do that.” Why is it so hard to talk?

Ryan withdraws his hand and shifts so he’s straddling her, his weight settling over her hips. The pressure of him sets off a flicker of anxiety, a spark that catches, and for a moment it’s Nathan on top of her, pinning her to the mattress with just his weight, his hands all over her, breath on her nape, shoving her face first into the mattress, suffocating, mothballs and dust in her nostrils, his scratchy jeans on the backs of her thighs, sheets soaked with drool, the embarrassed shiver of her bedsprings, her mouth open in a silent cry—but then his lips and tongue on her neck, warm and wet, and Nathan’s never done that to her. She sighs a little without really meaning to, turns her face into the bedspread to give Ryan a broader canvas. It kind of feels like being licked by a dog or something. Kind of tickles. She giggles a little and squeezes her eyes shut, where Christmas-colored phosphenes fizzle behind her lids.

“So fucking hot.”  

She doesn’t say anything, just lets him suck more bruises into her neck. No one’s ever kissed her like this before. She doesn’t know if she likes it or not. She feels his teeth skirt over her pulse and she jumps, hands blindly reaching for his shirt, balling the fabric into her fists. She feels him laugh, a puff of hot breath against her jaw.

She’s seen this in movies. Boys kissing girls. Sex. The way two bodies move together, easy and fluid, like they’d both done it a million times, even if it was only the first. But nothing about this feels easy, and all her sensations feel far away, like he’s touching her underwater. Her reactions are slowed—delayed—her mind and body operating at different speeds.  

Ryan shifts, lifting himself off her to kneel on either side of her thighs. He shucks her jeans down to her knees, and this time, when his hand slithers inside her underwear, something primal inside her claws to the surface, and she finds the strength to slap his arm away.

“What the hell,” he says.

“I—I don’t—want that,” she says again, trying to sit up. The room spins—there are three Ryans, and then two—and she puts a hand to her forehead as if to ease the pulsing there.

“What, you can put out for your big brother, but not for me?”

Taylor instantly recoils from him.

How does he—?

The repugnance in his voice wounds her, and she shrinks away, feebly pushing herself further up the bed. She feels so weak.

“Yeah, I know about that,” he sneers, “the whole fucking—”

Suddenly, the door bangs open, startling them both. Two people stumble in, a girl and a boy, limbs wrapped around each other, mouths occupied. The girl breaks away to giggle into the boy’s neck, and the boy steers them towards the bed.

Then, a sudden expletive of surprise at finding the room already occupied—“Oh, shit,”—and a half mumbled apology from the boy.

Ryan reaches above Taylor’s head and violently yanks a pillow out from underneath her, sending it careening towards the boy’s head.

“You fucking douchebag, do you knock?”

“Sorry, dude, didn’t realize anyone was in here....”

Taylor is already scrambling off the bed, horrified, sliding her jeans up past her thighs. Her fingers tremble over the button, and then the zipper.

“Jesus fuck,” the guys says suddenly, looking at Taylor, as if only just now seeing her for the first time. He looks at Ryan. “Dude, how old is she? Like, twelve?”

Ryan’s face flames, his nostrils flaring, but Taylor doesn’t notice. She doesn’t have time to do her belt, or to grab her jacket from where Ryan had pushed it to the floor. She stumbles out of the room, past the couple in the doorway, ignoring Ryan’s shouts. She almost falls down the stairwell, but somehow she makes it down in one piece, and then she is throwing open the front door, staggering down the wooden porch steps, the sidewalk. She breaks into a sprint, unsure of her destination, just needing to escape. Get away.

She doesn’t realize she is crying until she feels the bite of the cold wind on her wet cheeks. She hears her belt clink where it dangles around her thighs as she slows to a jog. She bends over on the sidewalk and puts her hands on her knees, panting for breath, in some residential area she doesn’t recognize, all the houses dimmed, stiff looking, the porch lights off. She wonders what time it is.

Her ears and throat burn from the cold. When she swallows, her saliva tastes coppery. She sniffles and tries to gather her bearings as she wanders along the sidewalk for a while, not sure what to do, or where to go. Her head is throbbing, and everything still feels dim and kind of faraway, like she is partway underwater or something.

It’s freezing without her jacket, and her bus pass was in the pocket—not that she could locate the nearest bus stop now. She wraps her arms around herself and keeps her head down to block out the cold, curling in on herself.

Behind her, a sudden beam of light. She turns to face the blinding flash of headlights head-on in the dark, bringing a hand up to her eyes to shield some of the light. A van pulls up alongside of her. Taylor’s heart lurches in her chest but she can’t run away. The van stalls, and she hears a door opening, and then a man walking around the front of the vehicle, looking at her.

“Jesus, kid. You’re just asking for it everywhere you go, aren’t you?”

She doesn’t recognize him at first, but after a long moment she heaves a sigh of relief at the familiar face. She knows he works for Mr. J. She’s seen him outside the hangar before.

He slides open the back door. “Get in.”

Taylor hesitates, not sure if she can trust him.

“Come on,” he says again, trying to soften some, but it’s only marginal. “He wants to see you.”

She crawls into the back of the van. When the door slides closed, she is submerged in cool darkness. The seats have been gutted, so she lies down on the floor and curls into a ball. The van rolls along. The streets are soft, empty. She stares for a long time out the two back windows, the tender, golden blur of the city at night, oranges and yellows interspersed by patches of darkness. She closes her eyes, feels the golden streetlamps curling over the back of her lids, and she pretends she is underwater, that the flickering light is the warmth of the sun breaking through the ocean’s surface.

It’s hard to keep her eyes open. She lets the vibrations of the van lull her to sleep.

She wakes to the sound of voices. At first, she doesn’t remember where she is, and she strains to listen, even as her head throbs when she tries to lift it from the floor.

“—drunk. She was wandering for a while.”

“Hm.”    

“Took something, too. Think it was Ativan. She’s pretty out of it—”

The voices draw closer, and then the door swings open, and it jars her as it slides all the way back, the loud bang it makes as it hits the bumper.

She looks up at the two figures through a drowsy haze. Her eyes widen.

“Mr. J,” she slurs, “I feel—feel funny.”

She tries to crawl out of the van, and somehow ends up on her hands and knees on the cold ground. She feels bile creeping up her throat, but she chases it back down with a shuddery exhale. Her palms and knees burn from the scrape of hard concrete.

She’s too weak to stand. She tries to lift her head, but the world caves in on itself. She rolls onto her side. It’s so dark outside. She stares at Mr. J’s approaching shoes instead.

His hands slide under her back and his other beneath her legs, picking her up, suddenly, like she’s weightless. She’s too weak to wrap her arms around his neck, and they hang limp, one pressed between her side and his abdomen, the other dangling uselessly.

“Anything else?” she hears.

“No,” Mr. J says. “Nothing else.”                                                    

He carries her into the hangar. She is set down on something soft. The orange couch, she thinks. She nearly topples over, but she manages to right herself at the last second, giggling a little. Mr. J swims in front of her eyes, and she smiles at him, as if seeing him for the first time. She scoots to the edge of the couch and leans forward to sloppily throw her arms around his neck, where he’s crouched in front of her.  

“Mr. J!” she slurs. “I’m so, so—hiccup—happy to see you.”

She feels him stiffen, but he does not push her away. “You’re drunk.”

“Beer is gross!” she tells him, emphatic all of the sudden. She makes a “yuck” sound, and then she digs her fingers into the collar of his jacket a little, nuzzles herself right up into the crook of his neck, and she feels it when he swallows, the way his throat bobs. “I don’t like it,” she says. She lays her head down on his shoulder and sighs, but it comes out as a hiccup instead. She frowns into his shoulder, very serious, now. Thinking. “I don’t like parties.”

Mr. J hums. She feels him rest his forearms on the edge of the couch to steady himself, on either side of her thighs. She huffs into his neck. “I’m so sleepy.” As if only just now aware of this opportunity, she leans forward suddenly and blows a raspberry into his neck, where the side of his throat is just barely exposed behind the collar of his shirt.

He grunts and shoves her away. Stands. She lands on her side on the couch and giggles, hair tousled around her like a halo, looking up at him, her eyes glossy and bright.  

“Look at you,” he says after a moment, when her laughter has dissolved. “Aaalways getting yourself into trouble.” He tsks, his voice heavy, laden with disappointment. “What am I going to do with you?”

She sits up suddenly, worried. Her vision swims. “Are you mad at me?” There is the prickle of tears in her eyes. She swallows something bulbous that’s formed in her throat, a fist of panic. “Please don’t be mad at me.”

Mr. J only stares at her, and she doesn’t stop him when he lays a hand on her shoulder, gently pushing her to lie back down on the couch as he hovers over her. Three fingers on her jaw then, pushing it to the side, so her cheek is pressed against the cushions, her neck exposed to him. It’s all pale, thin skin. The blue whisper of a vulnerable, pulsing artery, all that stunning canvas of possibility. It awakens an old hunger in him—killing her. His original plan.

Funny, how far they’ve come since then.

“Who did that to you?”

He is tracing over the red-purple blotch on her neck, this indefinite shape. She instinctively reaches up to touch the skin too, and their fingers tangle on kiss-bruised skin. Her pulse jumps under their fingertips where they can both feel it.

“Ryan wanted to kiss me… but I didn’t want him to.”

“No?”

“I’ve never been kissed before,” she says, studying the frayed threads of the couch with the sort of manic concentration that only someone truly inebriated could possess. “I bet you kiss girls all the time!” she exclaims.

She hears him snort. “It just so happens I am very picky,” he deadpans.  

“Oh,” Taylor says. She is staring up at the ceiling now, blinking. Her eyelids feel so heavy. “I’m picky too. I hate broccoli.”

“Mhm.”

“Can you sit down?” Taylor squints up at him, as if looking up at him from a telescope. “You’re making me dizzy.”

He humors her and does what she asks, mostly because she won’t remember any of this in the morning. He settles himself on the opposite end of the couch, and Taylor immediately sits up and scoots towards him. She has no qualms about making herself comfortable, laying her head down in his lap. Snuggling close. She clumsily jams an elbow into his ribs on accident but doesn’t seem to notice. She is as happy as a clam.

“I wish we could be like this all the time.”

He almost doesn’t hear her, how quietly she says it, the way the words are tethered to the back of a yawn. He takes it upon himself to touch a strand of her hair, and then several, slowly combing through it with his bare hands. It feels nice. Soft. Something about it feels stupidly indulgent.

“Mr. J?” she yawns. She takes his free arm and drapes it over her waist to use as a blanket. Her eyes are closed, the dark fan of her lashes pressed against her cheeks. “Do you love me?”

He hasn’t stopped looking at her from the moment she laid herself in his lap. Even after all this time, he is still fascinated by her unwavering trust in him, how freely she gives herself to him. The hand on her waist curls a little tighter.

“No,” he murmurs. He runs his fingers through her hair, carefully scrapes the smaller strands behind her ear, over and over again. “I don’t love you.” She yawns, a soft sound, and curls her legs closer to her chest for warmth. If his words have any effect on her, she does not let on. Her cheek is warm on his thigh. Her breathing evens out, the steady rise and fall of her chest. He curls a strand of her hair around his finger.

“I don’t love you at all.”

A/N: This was sickeningly sweet, tooth-rotting, sugar-coated fluff. Every single bit of it. I’m sorry. I had to.  

#Burn #JK #my writing

[trinuviel]

Crowned with Fire – True and False Lights in A Song of Ice and Fire (part 2)

In the previous installment in this series, I wrote about the tower crowned with fire – the lighthouse – as a positive image of truth and guidance. Thus, the Lighthouse is an example of a true light in GRRM’s epic fantasy series A Song of Ice and Fire.  In this post, I’ll examine the imagery of the crown of fire in relation to the notion of false light and the destructive side of fire.

WRECKERS AND DECEPTIVE LIGHTS

The lighthouse is, as noted, a positive image in ASoIaF. It guides ships into safe harbor during the darkness of the night. However, as so many things, the lighthouse and its function can be abused for nefarious purposes - such as deliberately wrecking ships on treacherous shores, a detail @lostlittlesatellites and @shinynewrevulsions made me aware of in Davos’ story.

These days the Sistermen left open piracy to Salladhor Saan and his ilk and confined themselves to wrecking. The beacons that burned along the shores of the Three Sisters were supposed to warn of shoals and reefs and rocks and lead the way to safety, but on stormy nights and foggy ones, some Sistermen would use false lights to draw unwary captains to their doom. (ADwD, Davos I)

Wreckers form a subset of smugglers and pirates. They use beacons to deliberately lure ships into dangerous waters on nights with poor visibility.

(Image from the miniseries Jamaica Inn)

In this context, the practice of wrecking subverts the positive imagery of the lighthouse and recasts the beacon as a false light that lures the unwary traveler astray. 

A BURNING CROWN

I want to return to the imagery of something/someone being crowned by fire because it is an image that recurs in the text, sometimes in different variations. One particular striking image is the one of a crown of fire, which is related to Stannis Baratheon and Daenerys Targaryen.

Stannis has a terrifying vision in the flames of a king that is consumed by a burning crown:

“Last night, gazing into that hearth, I saw things in the flames as well. I saw a king, a crown of fire on his brows, burning . . . burning, Davos. His own crown consumed his flesh and turned him into ash. – Stannis Baratheon to Davos Seaworth, (ASoS, Davos V) 

This vision is very interesting to me because it can be read both as a foreshadowing as well as an expression of Stannis’ own fears regarding the role that Melisandre cast him as: Azor Ahai come again. Stannis fears that he’ll be consumed by the path that Melisandre has set him upon – and he isn’t wrong. Melisandre is mistaken in her identification of Stannis as the saviour her religion has promised. She tries to manipulate the events circumstances to fit the prophecy, which only results in a “magical” sword that is subtly wrong (x) and (x). She desperately wants to believe that she has found the promised saviour but instead Melisandre has created a “false light” with the glowing sword that she gifts Stannis through an elaborate, fiery ceremony at Dragonstone. 

The imagery of a burning crown also appears in one of Daenerys’ chapters in a very literal manner when she has Drogon set one of the slavers of Astapor on fire: 

And Dany swept the lash down as hard as she could across the slaver's face. Kraznys screamed and staggered back, the blood running red down his cheeks into his perfumed beard. The harpy's fingers had torn his features half to pieces with one slash, but she did not pause to contemplate the ruin. "Drogon," she sang out loudly, sweetly, all her fear forgotten. "Dracarys." 

The black dragon spread his wings and roared. A lance of swirling dark flame took Kraznys full in the face. His eyes melted and ran down his cheeks, and the oil in his hair and beard burst so fiercely into fire that for an instant the slaver wore a burning crown twice as tall as his head. The sudden stench of charred meat overwhelmed even his perfume, and his wail seemed to drown all other sound. Then the Plaza of Punishment blew apart into blood and chaos.(ASoS, Daenerys III)

 This scene takes place when Daenerys buys a slave army in Astapor, only to turn them on the slavers. This is the moment where her anti-slavery crusade is born – on the Plaza of Punishment in Astapor, the slavers are punished with fire and blood. However, it is also the first real and premeditated action Dany takes towards her ambition of reclaiming her father’s throne in Westeros. She is in Astapor to acquire an army to conquer Westeros and she begins her quest for the Iron Throne by giving a man a burning crown of fire. As with Stannis, the imagery of the burning crown is a destructive one.

THE FIERY PIT

In my previous post, I mentioned that it was a particular quote from the novella The Princess and the Queen that inspired the subject of this series of metas: “Atop the Hill of Rhaenys, the Dragonpit wore a crown of yellow fire, burning so bright it seemed as if the sun was rising.” In this context, the image of the crown of fire is associated with a false light, a fire so bright that it could be mistaken for the dawn. If the tower crowned with fire – the lighthouse – is an image of a true light, then the burning Dragonpit is its opposite: the fiery pit is a false light – and this false light is closely associated with dragonfire.

The Dragonpit is a significant architectural landmark in King’s Landing. It sits atop The Hill of Rhaenys and is just as visually prominent as the Red Keep on Aegon’s High Hill and The Sept of Baelor on Visenya’s Hill.

(King’s Landing. Art by Tomasz Jedruszek)

When it comes to the history of King’s Landing, Rhaenys’ Hill has felt the devastating effects of both dragon- and wildfire several times over. The Dragonpit was not the first large building that was raised upon The Hill of Rhaenys. Originally, the hill was crowned by the Sept of Remembrance, built in memory of Queen Rhaenys Targaryen after she was killed in the First Dornish War. Maegor I Targaryen (called the Cruel) unleased the fire of Balerion the Black Dread on the Sept of Remembrance during his conflict with the Faith Militant.

(Maegor I Targaryen and Balerion burn the Sept of Remembrance. Art by Jordi Gonzalez Escamilla)

After the burning of The Sept of Remembrance, Maegor I had the Dragonpit built as a residence for the Targaryen dragons. Approximately 90 years later the Dragonpit burns down during the Dance of the Dragons when a mob of people stormed the building in order to kill the dragons.

A thousand shrieks and shouts echoed across the city, mingling with the dragon’s roar. Atop the Hill of Rhaenys, the Dragonpit wore a crown of yellow fire, burning so bright it seemed as if the sun was rising. Even the queen trembled as she watched, the tears glistening on her cheeks. Many of the queen’s companions on the rooftop fled, fearing that the fires would soon engulf the entire city, even the Red Keep atop Aegon’s High Hill. (The Princess and the Queen)

What is left is a burnt out shell of the mighty dome.

(The Dragonpit. Art by Franz Miklis)

About 70 years later, the Dragonpit is used to store the bodies of the multitudes that succumbed to the Great Spring Sickness. There, the bodies were cremated by wildfire.

" A dreadful time, ser, dreadful. Strong men would wake healthy at the break of day and be dead by evenfall. So many died so quickly there was no time to bury them. They piled them in the Dragonpit instead, and when the corpses were ten feet deep, Lord Rivers commanded the pyromancers to burn them. The light of the fires shone through the windows, as it did of yore when living dragons still nested beneath the dome. By night you could see the glow all through the city, the dark green glow of wildfire.” (The Sworn Sword) 

Corpses were piled in the ruins of the Dragonpit until they stood ten feet high and, in the end, Bloodraven had the pyromancers burn the corpses where they lay. A quarter of the city went up in flames along with them, but there was nothing else to be done. (tWoIaF) 

During Robert’s Rebellion, King Aerys II Targaryen had 300 jars of wildfire hidden beneath the Dragonpit. Those jars where found by the Guild of the Pyromancers in the periode leading up to the Battle of the Blackwater. It is unclear whether there still is wildfire hidden beneath the Dragonpit. 

I want to return to the burning of the Dragonpit in the novella The Princess and the Queen because the description of how dragons and men attacked each other shares some strong similarities with a scene that takes place in another pit: the scene in Daznak’s Pit in Meereen that ends with Daenerys Targaryen riding Drogon for the first time in A Dance with Dragons.

Let’s have a look at how the Storming of the Dragonpit is described in The Princess and the Queen:

No two chronicles agree on how many men and women died that night beneath the Dragonpit’s great dome: two hundred or two thousand, be that as it may. For every man who perished, ten suffered burns and yet survived. Trapped within the pit, hemmed in by walls and dome and bound by heavy chains, the dragons could not fly away, or use their wings to evade attacks and swoop down on their foes. Instead they fought with horns and claws and teeth, turning this way and that like bulls in a Flea Bottom rat pit … but these bulls could breathe fire. The Dragonpit was transformed into a fiery hell where burning men staggered screaming through the smoke, the flesh sloughing from their blackened bones, but for every man who died, ten more appeared, shouting that the dragons must need die. One by one, they did.

Shrykos was the first dragon to succumb, slain by a woodsman known as Hobb the Hewer, who leapt onto her neck, driving his axe down into the beast’s skull as Shrykos roared and twisted, trying to throw him off. Seven blows did Hobb deliver with his legs locked round the dragon’s neck, and each time his axe came down he roared out the name of one of the Seven. It was the seventh blow, the Stranger’s blow, that slew the dragon, crashing through scale and bones into the beast’s brain.

[…]

The last of the four pit dragons did not die so easily. Legend has it that Dreamfyre had broken free of two of her chains at Queen Helaena’s death. The remaining bonds she burst now, tearing the stanchions from the walls as the mob rushed her, then plunging into them with tooth and claw, ripping men apart and tearing off their limbs even as she loosed her terrible fires. (The Princess and the Queen)

Now, let us take a look at another dragon-on-human bloodbath in another pit.

In A Dance with Dragons, Daenerys Targaryen attends the gladiatorial combats in Daznak’s Pit in Meereen in celebration of the political marriage she made with a local nobleman, Hizdar zo Loraq. The blood and violence of the brutal games attract Drogon, the largest of Daenerys’ dragons and when he descends upon the pit to feast on the corpse of on of the fighters, all hell breaks loose.

One man took it on himself to be a hero. He was one of the spearmen sent out to drive the boar back to his pen. Perhaps he was drunk, or mad. Perhaps he had loved Barsena Blackhair from afar or had heard some whisper of the girl Hazzea. Perhaps he was just some common man who wanted bards to sing of him. He darted forward, his boar spear in his hands. Red sand kicked up beneath his heels, and shouts rang out from the seats. Drogon raised his head, blood dripping from his teeth. The hero leapt onto his back and drove the iron spearpoint down at the base of the dragon's long scaled neck. Dany and Drogon screamed as one. (ADwD, Daenerys IX)

The hero leaned into his spear, using his weight to twist the point in deeper. Drogon arched upward with a hiss of pain. His tail lashed sideways. She watched his head crane around at the end of that long serpentine neck, saw his black wings unfold. The dragonslayer lost his footing and went tumbling to the sand. He was trying to struggle back to his feet when the dragon's teeth closed hard around his forearm. "No" was all the man had time to shout. Drogon wrenched his arm from his shoulder and tossed it aside as a dog might toss a rodent in a rat pit. (ADwD, Daenerys IX)

The spearmen were running too. Some were rushing toward the dragon, spears in hand. Others were rushing away, throwing down their weapons as they fled. The hero was jerking on the sand, the bright blood pouring from the ragged stump of his shoulder. His spear remained in Drogon's back, wobbling as the dragon beat his wings. Smoke rose from the wound. As the other spears closed in, the dragon spat fire, bathing two men in black flame. His tail lashed sideways and caught the pitmaster creeping up behind him, breaking him in two. Another attacker stabbed at his eyes until the dragon caught him in his jaws and tore his belly out. (ADwD, Daenerys IX)

There are several points of comparison between the scenes from The Princess and the Queen and A Dance with Dragons:

Dragons burning people and tearing them limb from limb.

A man leaps onto the neck of a dragon and injures it with an axe and a spear respectively.

The phrase RAT PIT is used in both scenes, which binds them together through associative logic.

Furthermore, both scenes makes an associative connection between dragons – fire – hell. The Dragonpit is described as a “fiery hell” in The Princess and the Queen whereas Daenerys places hell in Drogon’s molten eyes:

Drogon roared. The sound filled the pit. A furnace wind engulfed her. The dragon's long scaled neck stretched toward her. When his mouth opened, she could see bits of broken bone and charred flesh between his black teeth. His eyes were molten. I am looking into hell, but I dare not look away. She had never been so certain of anything. If I run from him, he will burn me and devour me. (ADwD, Daenerys IX)

FALSE LIGHTS: PROPHECIES AND DRAGONFIRE

I find it noteworthy that both Stannis and Daenerys have the burning crown as a negative image in their chapters, especially since they are both associated with the prophecies of Azor Ahai come again and The Prince that was Promised. I have written about that here and here. Maester Aemon correctly identifies Stannis’ glowing sword, which looks like the sun made steel, as a false light – an empty glamour that will only lead into darkness. Thus, the misinterpretation of a prophecy is a dangerous thing and prophecy itself can function as a false light, which I’d argue that it does in the case of AA come again.

In the same manner, I’d argue that dragonfire constitutes another false light. If the tower crowned with fire (the Lighthouse) represents a true light, then its inversion, the fiery pit as exemplified in the Dragonpit wearing a crown of fire represents another false light. I’ve demonstrated that the Storming of the Dragonpit and Drogon’s attack on Daznak’s Pit in Meereen are connected through an associative logic based on similarities in the way these events are described – so I’d argue that you could make a case for dragonfire as another representation of a false light.

I’ve come to believe that Daenerys’ dragons won’t be the solution to the threat of the Others (see my metas here, here and here). Stannis, his false Lightbringer and the burning crown that devours the wearer from his vision represents the false light that leads Melisandre astray. Daenerys and her dragons represent another false light that lead the readers astray because the text itself introduces the possibility of the dragons as an easy solution to the problem through one of Daenerys’ dreams:

That night she dreamt that she was Rhaegar, riding to the Trident. But she was mounted on a dragon, not a horse. When she saw the Usurper's rebel host across the river they were armored all in ice, but she bathed them in dragonfire and they melted away like dew and turned the Trident into a torrent. Some small part of her knew that she was dreaming, but another part exulted. This is how it was meant to be. The other was a nightmare, and I have only now awakened. (ASoS, Daenerys III)

Now it is established that Daenerys may have prophetic dreams like her ancestor Daenys the Dreamer. However, I cannot help but be suspicious of the ease with which the warriors armed in ice are defeated by the dragons in Dany’s dream. They simply melt away like dew after she bathes them in dragonfire. Then there’s the part of her that knows she’s dreaming but wishes that the dream is the reality. If we look at this passage in a Doylist context, the same conclusions can be applied to audience expectation. We want the dragons to be the solution to the problem of the Others because it seems straightforward and easy – but GRRM has said something that indicates that the dragons may be more of a threat than a salvation to Westeros:

Well, of course, the two outlying ones — the things going on north of the Wall, and then there is Targaryen on the other continent with her dragons — are of course the ice and fire of the title, “A Song of Ice and Fire.” The central stuff — the stuff that’s happening in the middle, in King’s Landing, the capital of the seven kingdoms […]You know, one of the dynamics I started with, there was the sense of people being so consumed by their petty struggles for power within the seven kingdoms, within King’s Landing — who’s going to be king? Who’s going to be on the Small Council? Who’s going to determine the policies? — that they’re blind to the much greater and more dangerous threats that are happening far away on the periphery of their kingdoms. (GRRM)

In this quote, GRRM explicitly states that the Fire of Dany and her dragons is one of two great, dangerous threats against Westeros that people are blind to – that blindness can be applied to bot a Watsonian and a Doylist perspective. The political players in Westeros as well as the audience are blind to the threat that Dany’s dragons present. It is very likely that she isn’t the promised saviour but rather a Destroyer on a scale that is almost equal to the others, which is something that I’ve written about previously. 

Interestingly enough, Dany has this dream the night before she has Drogon give the slaver Kraznys a burning crown that kills him. It is also noteworthy that Drogon’s flame is dark. Dragons have different coloured flames and Drogon’s flame is black fire shot with red. (Viserion’s flame is a pale golden fire shot with red and orange and Rhaegal’s flame is orange-yellow fire shot through with green). Drogon is Dany’s mount, the dragon she bonds with and his fire is black – hardly a flame that illuminates the darkness.

“THE LIGHT THAT BRINGS THE DAWN” – THE NIGHT’S WATCH

I have written several metas that touches upon the threat of the Others in relation to the symbolism employed as well as the prophecies about a chosen saviour: the series Azor Ahai, The Prince that was Promised and the Red Sword of Heroes 1-6, The Ice and the Fire of the Song 1-3 and others. They can be found here.

When pondering these issues, I keep coming back to the Night’s Watch in a way that has continued to surprise me. The legend of Lightbringer is quite possibly inspired by the obsidian blades that kills White Walkers with ease and the Night’s Watch is connected to the strongest defense against the Others: the Wall – an edifice built of ice and infused with a magic rooted in the living land.

As the story stands, the Night’s Watch is in no condition to counter this magical threat against the kingdom. The institution has dwindled in numbers as well as in reputation – and it is crippled by neglect. It has become the repository of criminals, traitors and minor nobles with nowhere else to go. They are in no way equipped to handle the threat of the Others.

Yet the symbolism of the Lighthouse is connected to the NW. The Last Hero is quite possibly Brandon the Builder who also is the likely founder of the NW as well as the builder of the Wall (and the Hightower = Lighthouse). These elements point to the NW as part of the solution and therefore I think it can be illuminating to take a closer look at the institution and its ideology. 

An important aspect of the NW is their role as apolitical protectors of the entire realm. They are The Shield that Guards the Realms of Men! They quite literally represent the ideal of people banding together against a common enemy regardless of politics, etc. This is a common trope in fantasy fiction – and GRRM uses the NW to examine this trope, subvert it and very likely reconstruct it. In my opinion, this is why the Lighthouse/Beacon as a representation of a true light that guides people through the darkness/night is connected to the Night’s Watch on a symbolic level as well as through an associative logic within the text itself.

#asoaif #meta #crowned with fire #the dragonpit #dragons #false lights #the night's watch #game of thrones #a song of ice and fire

[surveysonfleek]

794.

01. My hair is still its natural color 02. I’m a virgin. 03. I get annoyed when I don’t get to finish telling a story. 04. I like to wear pink. 05. Sometimes I wish I could do something really well. 06. I drink a lot of water. 07. I’ve never taken a hit of a cigarette. 08. I like musicians. 09. I’m such a health freak. 10. I love taking pictures. 11. I have really tiny wrists. 12. I can identify some close friends by smell. 13. I’m far too nice. 14. I hate when people confuse “your” and “you’re” 15. I think dorkiness is attractive 

16. I’ve never had a fake screen name. 17. I wish I had a pug. 18. I miss middle school. 19. I have pretty good eating habits. 20. I have a hard time making up my mind sometimes. 21. I wish my hair was naturally curled. 22. I can’t live without chapstick. 23. I wish I could sing. 24. I like classical music. 25. Striped pants are hot. 26. I think Schylar is a really cool name 27. I usually don’t get sarcasm. 28. I wish I could look in a mirror and constantly be satisfied with myself. 29. I shift between being sleepy and awake when I’m really tired. 30. I hardly ever vaccum. 31. I hate racism and nazi’s. 32. I want someone to hold me. 33. I like watermelon flavored things. 34. I’m a snob about grammar. 35. I am a terrible liar. 36. Axe deoderant smells WONDERFUL. 37. I wish I knew how to speak in Italian. 38. I tried to kiss a member of the opposite sex when I was in kindergarten. 40. I have no idea what my school musical is about. 41. I appreciate honesty. 42. I need a manicure. 43. I love Dr. Pepper. 44. I twirl my hair. 45. I love kissing. 46. I don’t own a cellphone. 47. I want to learn to play the harp. 48. I’m not old enough to vote. 49. I live in the past far too much. 50. I need to remember to be a teenager sometimes. 51. I want to see most of the world. 52. Sometimes I wonder what’s going on in other parts of the world. 53. I hate being lied to. 54. I believe in a thing called love. 55. I go shopping usually once a week. 56. Today is Wednesday. 57. I’ve read more than a 100 books. 58. I hate hearing songs that sacrifice meaning for the sake of being able to rhyme. 59. I like feet. 60. Jesse McCartney is hott. 61. I want the world to see me. 62. I think it’s funny when girls wear so much makeup that their faces become incandescent. 63. I hate seeing kids that think they’re different because they like Slipknot and shop at Hot Topic. 64. I have a fear of wearing too much perfume. 65. I wear pants more than I wear shorts. 66. I am tactful most of the time. 67. I’m afraid of spiders. 68. I get too attached to some people. 69. I’m usually on time. 70. I forgive but I don’t forget. 71. I think way too much for my own good. 72. My current relationship is teaching me a lot. 73. I like salads from McDonalds. 74. I read for at least two hours every night before bed. 75. I talk to a lot of people I don’t like because I hate being rude. 76. I sing in the shower. 77. Funny guys turn me on. 78. I wish I were asleep. 79. I love Reeses peanut butter cups. 80. I never have enough energy. 81. I have a friend who has an outtie bellybutton. 82. I have driven a car. 83. There is no nailpolish on my nails. 84. I am unafraid to change, but I don’t think I realize the boundary between change and utter transformation. 85. I wear brown, thin-rimmed glasses. 86. Goodbyes make me sad. 87. Cold Stone is so much better than Baskin Robbins! 88. I love cuddling. 89. I run when I’m bored. 90. I wish I were more attractive to other people. 91. I worry too much sometimes about what people think. 92. I’m a billion times better than I was in junior high school. 93. Compliments make me happy. 94. I like long car rides with certain people. 95. I hate when people incorrectly label me. 96. I wonder a lot who I’m going to end up marrying. 97. I listen to the things no one else cares about. 98. I can’t draw from imaginiation. 99. TyPiNg LIeK diS anNoyes mEeeh. 100. This took too long. 

#survey #surveys #quiz #bored #questions

[starseedsrise]

Buddhist Path to Achieving Astral Projection By Kavan Rambuckwelle

For anyone interested in following the Buddhist paths to achieving AP, listed below is some greatly summarized info:

1. Practice daily concentration meditation - called ‘Samatha/Shamatha’ in buddhist scriptures on the breath, mantra or any object of your choice.

2. Try to reach a minimum session of 45 mins. if you’ve never done meditation before, beginning with 5 mins. a day and gradually working up toward longer sessions over time. Eventually the longer the sessions the better, provided there is quality in focus.

3. Use awareness to monitor attentions focus and eliminate distractions, dullness, mental lethargy etc.

4. Reach the 4th Jhana via concentration. AP becomes a spontaneous ability once an individual has reached a stage called the 4th Jhana, explained below.

The Jhana’s are flow states of concentration where attention just drops into bliss, rapture etc. and the attention seamlessly focuses on its object with minimal distractions. Any distractions are all in the background. There are 8 Jhanic states. The 1st four result from focusing attention on form objects like the breath or mantra. The next 4 jhanas are based on formless states such as infinite space, infinite consciousness etc.

Method to reach the Jhanas:

1. Gain 'acces concentration’ - Access concentration is reached when attention enters the inner non physical self. Symptoms of reaching AC are: dramatic reduction in extraneous thoughts, attention almost effortlessly staying focused on object of meditation for many minutes without interruption, and most importantly noticing sensations of physical bliss in some part of the body, or even whole body. Usually the hands tend to bliss out 1st since there are so many nerve endings there.

2. Move attention away from the meditation object and focus it on the blissful sensations in the body. This will cause the bliss to increase and spread through the entire body/mind also leading to rapture.

3. Focusing attention on each stage of bliss/rapture above will lead to deeper and more profound jhanas, culminating in the 4th jhana that awakens powers of Astral Projection + other super normal powers.

The jhanic states naturally amplify mental focus and can be ridden like a surfer on the waves to deeper and deeper states. After the 1st jhana effort drops of and progress happens with effortlessness.

Main characteristics of the 8 jhanas?

1. 1st Jhana - physical bliss 2. 2nd Jhana - mental bliss or rapture 3. 3rd Jhana - tranquility 4. 4th Jhana - Equanimity (this stage is needed for Astral Projection, clairvoyancy, psychic gifts etc.)

5. 5th Jhana - infinite space 6. 6th Jhana - infintie consciousness 7. 7th Jhana - infinite emptiness 8. 8th Jhana - perception nor non perception

Description of AP from buddhist scriptures:

Samaññaphala Sutta: The Fruits of the Contemplative Life (Digha Nikaya 2.85-87)

The Mind-made Body

“With his mind thus concentrated, purified, and bright, unblemished, free from defects, pliant, malleable, steady, and attained to imperturbability, he directs and inclines it to creating a mind-made body. From this body he creates another body, endowed with form, made of the mind, complete in all its parts, not inferior in its faculties. Just as if a man were to draw a reed from its sheath. The thought would occur to him: 'This is the sheath, this is the reed. The sheath is one thing, the reed another, but the reed has been drawn out from the sheath.’ Or as if a man were to draw a sword from its scabbard. The thought would occur to him: 'This is the sword, this is the scabbard. The sword is one thing, the scabbard another, but the sword has been drawn out from the scabbard.’ Or as if a man were to pull a snake out from its slough. The thought would occur to him: 'This is the snake, this is the slough. The snake is one thing, the slough another, but the snake has been pulled out from the slough.’ In the same way — with his mind thus concentrated, purified, and bright, unblemished, free from defects, pliant, malleable, steady, and attained to imperturbability, the monk directs and inclines it to creating a mind-made body. From this body he creates another body, endowed with form, made of the mind, complete in all its parts, not inferior in its faculties.

"This, too, great king, is a fruit of the contemplative life, visible here and now, more excellent than the previous ones and more sublime.

Supranormal Powers

"With his mind thus concentrated, purified, and bright, unblemished, free from defects, pliant, malleable, steady, and attained to imperturbability, he directs and inclines it to the modes of supranormal powers. He wields manifold supranormal powers. Having been one he becomes many; having been many he becomes one. He appears. He vanishes. He goes unimpeded through walls, ramparts, and mountains as if through space. He dives in and out of the earth as if it were water. He walks on water without sinking as if it were dry land. Sitting cross-legged he flies through the air like a winged bird. With his hand he touches and strokes even the sun and moon, so mighty and powerful. He exercises influence with his body even as far as the Brahma worlds. Just as a skilled potter or his assistant could craft from well-prepared clay whatever kind of pottery vessel he likes, or as a skilled ivory-carver or his assistant could craft from well-prepared ivory any kind of ivory-work he likes, or as a skilled goldsmith or his assistant could craft from well-prepared gold any kind of gold article he likes; in the same way — with his mind thus concentrated, purified, and bright, unblemished, free from defects, pliant, malleable, steady, and attained to imperturbability — the monk directs and inclines it to the modes of supranormal powers… He exercises influence with his body even as far as the Brahma worlds.

"This, too, great king, is a fruit of the contemplative life, visible here and now, more excellent than the previous ones and more sublime.

Stages of Concentration Mastery from Mahamudra Tradition:

The 2 Attached pic. lists the 9 stages of concentration meditation. Helps create a goal for students and also know where one is currently. Painting is from the Mahamudra tradition in Tibet, but also applies to all traditions incl. christian meditation. 1st pic. can be enlarged with Cntrl + after downloading.

Elephant = mind Monkey = distraction Monk = meditator Monk’s rope = attention Monks gourd or ax = mindfulness (awareness) of attention. Watching what attention is doing is key to mastery. Rabbit on elephants back = mental lethargy or dullness Decreasing fires = effort required decreasing over time

As progress occurs elephant (mind) becomes purified. At certain stages monkey goes behind elephant showing distraction beginning to disappear, and concentration becoming more steady and focused.

Temple at bottom right = instruction in the teaching Distance between each stage = relative difficulty of reaching next stage Water and puddles = turmoil of regular mind Mirror, fruit, cloths, conch with perfume, cymbals = 5 hindrances: sight, taste, touch, smell, hearing. In Christianity these would represent triggers that lead to the 7 deadly sins. Cave on right = entrance into tranquility/solitude during stage 6 Baby in temple upper left corner, next to stage 9 = new birth experience of physical and mental bliss/happiness Mountains/clouds = access of transcendent realms Rainbow = beginning of super normal experiences/powers Monk riding elephant = mental bliss Monk flying = physical bliss/astral travel etc.

monk riding elephant in opposite direction with fire at back = beginning of Buddhist vipassana meditation to root out all mental defilements previously suppressed via concentration meditation. Vipassana is what makes Buddhist meditation unique compared to all other traditions. Other traditions only focus on concentration meditation (Buddhist samatha meditation) to access supernormal states/realms. Complete Buddhist path is both Samatha + vipassana that leads to enlightenment/liberation transcending all heaven world existences etc from other religions.

Flame in monks hand = insight from vipassana 2 rainbows coming from monks heart = mental dillusion and karmic patterns in the unconscious mind destroyed by flame (insight) in monks hand. 3 Buddhas at top: Adi (primordial), Amitaba (infinite light) and Manjushri (transcendant wisdom)

#Buddhism #astral projection #obe #out of body #spirituality #Buddhist #Juana #samadhi #esoteric