#spectral process

[axersfall]

A unique saturation M4L sound design plugin but with spectral process.

Link ► https://ko-fi.com/s/8c33fd04eb

Please check out my youtube channel for more Max/MSP ambient sound design videos!!!

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[sparkofthetelling]

sitting in on an abstract algebra class and it's like

damn I love abstract math but boy do I hate having to do the logic myself

this is so cool but please don't make me prove it mathematicians just let me make my silly statements please please please

also I think part of it is how seeing the formalism comes together and builds the construction of physics concepts and vice versa, and my interest in teaching wanting me to make sure I'm using the correct language to ensure I'm not entrenching people's conceptions of the physics in something that's completely wrong, because (and please share thoughts if anyone has any) I feel like it's far easier to adapt your understanding later if it's made very clear that you're missing part of the story

[mx-lamour]

So, once upon a time, I had a podcast...

Somewhat to my embarrassment, I tried to make a podcast in the early days of figuring out that I was probably autistic. This particular episode was a few months after we had started our Curse of Strahd campaign and only a few weeks after I had finally started therapy. So this is kind of a fascinating little glimpse into both my and Ezra's development.

I can't help sharing personal stories when they become relevant. I don't (nowadays) expect any pity/sympathy. I just get tired of hiding; I need to be out here. My life touches everything I write, anyway. It's an effective rule in creative writing: "Write what you know."

Podcast theme is "What does Love mean?" by Solar Flight, who just up and offered his song to me to use for free in this, and I am still so baffled by and grateful for it!

[russellmoreton]

Spatiality/Corporeal Traces : Space over Time by Russell Moreton Via Flickr: Art as Spatial Practice. independent.academia.edu/RussellMoreton Space folds : Containing "Spatialities around historicality and sociality" All that is solid melts into air" Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels, (Poetic observation concerning the constant revolutionizing of social conditions) Perceptions now gathering at the end of the millennium. Spatiality, Robert T. Tally Jr. 2013

[monstera-modd]

DCxDP Crossover #2

The Space Worm

After a battle with a particularly tough ghost, Danny seeks refuge among the stars, hoping that his obsession will aid in his healing process. As he floats through the dazzling lights and passes by moons and planets, Danny finally finds the perfect spot! He trills and chirps in delight as he wraps himself around the metal structure, soothing his throbbing core. Closing his eyes, he indulges in the much-needed rest that Jazz always encourages him to take.

_________________

Constantine is going to kill someone (himself preferably).

Bleary-eyed, he reaches for his phone on the nightstand.

"Bat, if the world isn't on fire, I swear I'll curse you ten ways to Sunday!"

The call goes silent—par for the usual with Batman and phone calls.

"There's a massive spectral entity encircling the Watchtower."

John curses the day he ever got involved with their shit in the first place.

"...I'm on my way."

________________________

"This is awesome!"

Batman grunts as Flash smashes his face against the glass in the viewing dock, trying to catch a glimpse of the glowing worm. ("What? It has no legs, Batman—thus, a worm!")

Batman's glare hardens. "Constantine is on his way. Until then, no one makes loud noises that could draw the creature's attention to us."

"Did he say what it could be, perhaps?" Wonder Woman asks. She had been sitting at the end of the table but now stands near Flash, looking out into space.

A ping on one of the screens announces Constantine’s arrival. Superman, pacing silently, flies over and lands just as the doors slide open, revealing Constantine, who looks like he got dragged through Hell and back—twice. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a curse meant to banish hangovers.

“Alright,” he sighs, stepping into the room. “I’m here. Where is the bloody emergency?”

Batman, ever the efficient one, gestures toward the massive viewing window. Constantine follows the motion, and for the first time, his usual deadpan expression falters. His cigarette almost falls from his lips.

"Bloody hell," he mutters.

“Right?!" Flash chimes in. "It’s a worm! A big, glowing, space worm!"

Constantine doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he steps closer to the glass, eyes narrowing. The creature is massive, coiled protectively around part of the Watchtower’s exterior. A strange, rhythmic hum reverberates through the hull, though it’s unclear if it’s coming from the worm or just an auditory illusion from its sheer size.

“Looks spectral,” Constantine finally says, rubbing his chin. “But… it’s not actin’ like a typical ghost. It’s just… resting.”

Wonder Woman folds her arms. “Could it be intelligent?”

“Most ghosts are,” Constantine mutters. “Even the dumb ones.”

Batman’s voice cuts in. “If it’s intelligent, we need to figure out its intentions before taking action.”

Superman frowns, his X-ray vision scanning the creature’s form. “There’s something… odd about it. I don’t sense hostility, but there’s definitely something going on with its heart.”

Constantine stiffens. “Its core?”

Superman nods. “It has a fluctuating energy source. Almost like…” He hesitates, then looks at Constantine. “Almost like a ghost that’s injured.”

That gets everyone’s attention.

"Injured?" Flash repeats. "So, what? This thing came here to take a nap?"

Constantine curses again, louder this time. “You bunch of blokes just let a massive, injured ghost curl up around your base without knowin’ what it is?”

“I tried to scan it,” Batman says, voice tight. “It’s unlike any spectral entity we’ve encountered before.”

Constantine sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Right, fine. Let’s do this the old-fashioned way.”

He raises a hand, fingers curling as he murmurs in Latin. A faint golden light pulses from his fingertips, stretching toward the glass. For a moment, nothing happens. Then—

A tremor shakes the Watchtower.

The worm stirs.

A low, warbling trill reverberates through the station, and suddenly, a pair of massive, glowing green eyes snap open.

Constantine stumbles back. “Ah, shit.”

The entire room tenses. Batman reaches for his belt. Superman prepares to engage.

But before anyone can act—

The worm blinks. Its form ripples, shifting, distorting, and then—

A human shape peels away from the massive ghostly coils, floating weightlessly in the vacuum of space.

A boy.

White hair, black jumpsuit, glowing green eyes filled with exhaustion and confusion. He clutches his chest as if it pains him, his breathing heavy.

Then, through the comms, a weak but familiar voice crackles through the static.

“Uh… hey?” The boy—Danny Phantom—gives a sheepish grin. “So… this isn’t where I parked my spaceship.”

The room is dead silent.

Flash is the first to speak.

“Holy crap. The worm talks.”

Constantine groans. "I hate this job."

-Danny the green worm

[zhelin-thames]

Now pay interest - 10% per year

Masterpost

As the Bat-family processed what had just happened, Jason was already plotting.

“So,” Jason began, a wicked grin spreading across his face, “does this mean we have a ghost King in the family now? Because I’ve got so many questions.”

“Focus, Todd,” Damian snapped, though his own curiosity was evident in his furrowed brow. “That... entity was clearly powerful. Father, why did you not inform us of this connection sooner?”

Bruce didn’t even glance up from his computer. “It was irrelevant.”

“Irrelevant?” Dick exclaimed, gesturing wildly. “A glowing ghost guy just popped out of a portal in our cave to collect a debt, and you think it’s irrelevant?”

Tim, typing furiously, pulled up the mission logs from Bruce’s early years. “Okay, I think I found the mission in Prague where this all went down. It says here... wait. Danny wasn’t just some guy you ran into. You trained with him in the League of Assassins?”

Steph leaned over Tim’s shoulder to read. “Wait, what?! He’s an assassin ghost King?”

Jason let out a low whistle. “This just gets better and better.”

Duke raised his hand, hesitant. “Uh, just a thought… if he’s the Ghost King, doesn’t that mean he has control over, like, all ghosts? Including... uh, Lazarus Pits?”

Everyone froze. Slowly, they all turned to Bruce, whose expression darkened slightly.

“Yes,” Bruce admitted reluctantly.

“Holy crap,” Jason said, leaning back with a stunned look. “He’s the reason the Pits freaked me out after I came back, isn’t he? I thought it was just the resurrection thing, but you knew he was tied to them!”

Bruce’s silence was answer enough.

“I want to meet him,” Cass signed firmly.

“Seconded,” Duke added. “He seems cool.”

“No,” Bruce said, finally standing and cutting through the rising chatter. His tone was firm, brooking no argument. “Danny is not someone you want to get involved with.”

But before Bruce could elaborate, the room was bathed in green light again.

Danny reappeared, now sitting cross-legged in mid-air, holding what looked like a spectral clipboard. “Forgot one thing,” he announced casually.

Bruce’s glare could have burned through steel. “What now?”

Danny smirked. “I want interest. Fifteen years is a long time to wait for sixteen bucks. So let’s say... ten percent per year?”

Jason cackled as the rest of the family broke out into laughter. Even Damian couldn’t entirely suppress a smirk.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose again. “I’m not paying you interest.”

Danny shrugged, grinning. “Guess I’ll have to stick around until you do. Hope you’ve got extra space, because I’m moving in.”

The Batcave erupted into chaos. Jason and Steph cheered, Tim frantically calculated how much Bruce technically owed, and Bruce’s patience reached its breaking point.

“Fine,” Bruce growled. “But you’re staying in the guest room.”

Danny floated down, looking entirely too smug. “Deal. Now, who’s up for pizza? I’m starving.”

[nopaintjustpain]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63610357

“And then the next moment, he’s suddenly, blindingly awake.

Or at least, that’s what it feels like. A passing glance at the alarm clock shows it’s somewhere around 4 AM, but for the first split second of consciousness, he’s too disoriented to process the time. Jon woke them both up with a short, sharp, startled cry before he dissolved immediately into tears. Elias catches a glimmer of green and crimson as he turns, spectral eyes opening all around Jon and buzzing in response to his fear. Then they disappear just as fast. Elias sits up, still blinking blearily. He finds Jon curled on his side next to him, nearly smothering himself with the pillow from how hard he clutches it to his face. Oh. That makes sense. Blocking his senses to stop Beholding from slipping out through him in a moment of vulnerability.

Elias turns over, reaches, hesitates, then rests his fingertips ever-so-gently on Jon’s bent back. When this doesn’t elicit any reaction besides a brief hitch in the sobs, he smooths his hand up and down Jon’s spine in long, careful sweeps. He vaguely remembers his wet nurse doing this for him as a child. This is comforting, right?

“Ssshhhh… it’s okay, Jon. Everything’s alright,” he murmurs in the dark, his voice husky with sleep. “You’re safe. Can you take a deep breath for me?”

A pause, and then Jon obeys, his chest shuddering with the strain of sucking air through the silk pillowcase.

“Good. Good job. Another, please.”

A few more, and Elias convinces Jon to remove the pillow from his face so he can breathe more easily. He sees why Jon needs it, though. His eyes are pinned wide and unblinking with terror, glowing that unnatural shade of green they both know so well. The moment he can see again, the Eyes appear in the air all around him like a hungry swarm. It’s unclear whether they’re here to defend Jon from the perceived threat, or to feed on him.

It’s not often that Elias pushes any feedback into his link with Beholding, aside from the fear it feeds on and the pleasure he takes from it. He considers himself an instrument of his God: to speak back to it is as offensive as it is futile. But tonight, for Jon’s sake, he tries. He opens his own Eye — a single spectral visage glowing from the center of his forehead like the jewel of some terrible crown — and turns it away, across town to the nightmares of some other unfortunate soul. While he does this, he slips in behind Jon and folds his hand over the Archivist’s eyes. There’s a momentary but intense burn of static against his skin, Beholding displeased to be cut off from its Archivist and punishing him for daring to defy it. But he reminds it of its victim elsewhere and diverts its attention as best he can.

Almost instantly, Jon calms. A few more breaths and Elias feels the faint flutter of eyelashes against his palm as Jon finally regains the ability to close his own eyes. His sobbing turns from scared to relieved as he grips Elias’s wrist with one shaking hand, clutching tight as if begging him not to take it away.

So, Elias doesn’t. He crosses the remainder of the space between them, slips his other arm underneath Jon, and tucks the smaller man against his chest to make the angle easier on them both. But he keeps his hand sealed around Jon’s eyes despite the itch of tears drying on his hand. “You’re okay,” he murmurs into the Archivist’s hair. “You’re safe, Jon. All is well.”

It takes a few more minutes of soothing before Jon believes him. But he relaxes by degrees in Elias’s arms, until at last, sleep claims him again.

Meanwhile, Elias lays awake until dawn.

I did this.

I did this terrible thing to him.

He knew this logically. He did it on purpose. He spent years planning it. But to understand the consequences of his actions in the abstract is so, so different from seeing and feeling them now.”

[Excerpt from Chapter 3 of my JonElias fic, Villain and Violent (Infant and Innocent)]

[thenewgirl76]

Babies Having Raising Babies

Deciding to visit Amity Park and hang out with Danny for a bit before getting back to her globetrotting, Ellie arrives just in time to witness Plasmius ambush and abduct her original/big brother. Knowing a direct confrontation won't end well she opts to follow the older halfa from a greatly lengthened distance.

Once she makes it to the castle and sneaks into the lab she finds Danny out cold and now significantly younger, with Vlad standing over him holding an empty syringe. It takes everything in Ellie not to rush her demented creator right then and there and instead wait it out for an opportune moment to strike.

When Vlad's in the process of placing a rather nefarious looking device on the unconscious three year old's head is when Phantasm acts, grabbing up Vlad's spectral energy neutralizer and trapping him in it before he can get his guard back up. With the crazed billionaire subdued she then thoroughly wrecks the lab and takes off with Danny.

Even after she's well out of range of Wisconsin Ellie doesn't stop, continuing to fly at top speed until all her energy's been spent. She barely manages to avoid crash landing into the barn she came across before blacking out from sheer exhaustion.

She eventually stirs at the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked pie. The sight that greets her upon rousing is her now little brother wide awake and happily scarfing down a generous slice of pecan pie, as well as a boy her age holding the rest, watching them both from a respectful distance.

It's only through the frantic promise of telling no-one about them and offering of more food that Ellie doesn't go invisible, snatch up Danny, and hightail it out of the barn in a blind panic. The boy introduces himself after she calms down as Jon Kent, explaining she and Danny were currently in Kansas and in his grandparents' barn.

And true to his word, Jon keeps the two of them a secret and consistently supplies them with food, even goes a step further by giving some of his old clothes to Danny and periodically sneaking them into the house to use the shower.

Though suspicious of his kindness in the beginning, only taking advantage for Danny's sake, it isn't long before Ellie comes to trust the farmboy and feel quite a bit of guilt for taking so much and giving nothing in return, no matter how many times Jon tells her he doesn't mind and is happy to help.

Overtime the two teens grow comfortable enough to share the more secretive parts of their lives, Jon as Superboy and Ellie both as Phantasm and what led to her first crashing into the Kent's barn with Danny. Further along the way the half ghost and half kryptonian start to develop feelings for each other.

For the first time in her short life Ellie isn't so strongly against staying in one place for extended periods of time. Unconventional as the whole situation is, technically being a runaway along with now having someone she was responsible for, she could get used to all of this. The only downside is that Danny, having been stripped of nearly all his memories thanks to whatever Vlad injected into him and now too young to know any better won't stop calling her and Jon Mommy and Daddy. Jon sees no harm in it and thinks it's cute. But Ellie just knows anyone who hears is going to get the wrong idea.

This is unfortunately proven when one day Jon's dad finally returns from a team mission offworld and not too soon after must deal with Livewire. When Jon finds out and rushes off to help he doesn't realize Danny is following him invisibly, wanting to see him in action. Throughout the entirety of the fight Superboy is blissfully unaware of the presence of his girlfriend's little brother, only to be unpleasantly surprised once Livewires been taken down and Danny unexpectedly appears, cheering for him.

Before his dad can question him Phantasm makes her own appearance and proceeds to scold Danny for wandering off, adding to Superman's confusion and giving Jon a bad feeling. That's when the bomb drops as Danny, feeling properly contrite attempts to appease Ellie, apologizing to "Mommy" before expressing that he wanted to watch "Daddy" fight bad guys.

Immediately Jon finds himself cringing. He doesn't want to, but he has to. So he slowly turns to take in his father's expression. And just as he feared, his dad is looking deathly pale and seconds away from having a heart attack. Okay. Maybe Ellie had a point about nipping this in the bud before someone jumped to conclusions.

[axersfall]

Let's play around with this great effect from ableton live---spectral resonator,and design some cool sounds with it!!!!!!

8-steps LFO device :

Please check out my youtube channel for more Max/MSP ambient sound design videos!!!!!!

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #5

Time is funny when you’re half-dead, fully annoyed, and accidentally adopted by the Goddess of Death.

Clockwork would say there are no accidents—only inconvenient truths and divine meddling. That’s probably why Danny Fenton, fifteen-year-old ghost boy with a penchant for sarcasm and trauma, had found himself dropped into the Nine Realms like a glowing, confused kitten tossed into a pit of wolves. Except in this case, the wolves wore armor, carried swords, and were burning a village in Odin’s name.

He arrived mid-battle. Because, of course.

Green fire blazed from his hands instinctively, not because he wanted to help some random Asgardian villagers (okay maybe a little), but because he didn’t like bullies and the Einherjar were real assholes. He knocked one out of the sky, punched another through a stone pillar, and then got personally tackled by a blur of black and green.

The Goddess of Death stared at him. He stared back, mildly terrified but also annoyed because she hadn’t brushed her hair in 50 years and still looked better than him. Her crown formed, antlers arching like the jaws of a beast, and she asked, “What in the Yggdrasil are you?”

Danny blinked, wiped blood from his cheek that wasn’t even his, and muttered, “Ghost. Teenager. Lost, I think?”

And Hela—executioner of a thousand realms, general of Asgard’s greatest conquests, secret eldest child of Odin—looked at this scrawny glowing boy with plasma in his veins and something inside her cracked. Maybe it was maternal instinct. Maybe it was madness. Maybe it was because he shot a sarcastic thumbs-up at her after kicking a berserker into a wall.

But she didn’t kill him.

Instead, she took him to her quarters in the Golden Palace, cleaned his wounds with unsettling gentleness, and when Odin came asking, “Where did this strange creature come from?” she looked the All-Father dead in the eye and said, “He’s mine.”

Danny had no idea how this escalated, but suddenly he had a new Asgardian name—Dánjal Helson. It sounded dramatic and ancient and weirdly metal. He hated it. But he didn’t fight her on it. Not when she started teaching him how to channel the dead, how to split his ectoplasmic form into spectral blades, how to walk through the veil between life and death and come back laughing. She was a terrifying mother, but she was his.

And then Odin banished her.

Danny had screamed at Clockwork, demanded answers, but all the time ghost said was, “This was always meant to happen.”

So he did what any teenage ghost king with mommy issues and interdimensional authority would do—he broke into Helheim.

Well. He didn’t really break in. He sort of… floated. Slipped. Ghosted through the borders of the dead and found her throne, jagged and thorny, surrounded by skeletal wolves and screaming winds. She was sitting there, bleeding shadows, eyes dull with millennia of betrayal. And when she looked up and saw him—her boy—she fell to her knees.

He ran to her.

She touched his face like it was a miracle. He said, “Hey Mom,” because apparently sarcasm is how you process godlike trauma.

Years passed. Danny became King of the Infinite Realms. The title came with annoying paperwork, wars against spectral tyrants, and weird tea with the Ghost Council. But he always made time to visit Hela. They trained together. She told him Asgardian legends. He taught her Earth memes. Once, he showed her a vine compilation and she laughed so hard a bridge in Niflheim collapsed.

She taught him to wear a crown with violence.

He taught her to say “yeet.”

Then Odin’s death happened.

Thor and Loki were on their redemption road trip, bonding and yelling and discovering truths. Odin croaked in Norway and, with his last breath, whispered something like “She’s coming. My firstborn. She will bring death.”

Thor assumed it was a warning.

It was, in fact, an invitation.

Because instead of bursting out of Helheim and heading to Asgard for vengeance and chaos, Hela just looked at the hole in the sky and said, “Hold on.”

She turned to Danny, who was floating upside down in his ridiculous green cape and crown of bone-fire, holding a ghost-summoning staff like a bored wizard with ADHD.

“I think I’m free.”

Danny blinked. “Cool. Wanna rule a death dimension with me?”

“Yes.”

And that was how Hela, Goddess of Death, became the terrifying, unhinged, protective Queen Mother of the Infinite Realms. She wore black armor, sharp heels, and lipstick made of shadow. She smiled when ghosts bowed to her and summoned dragons when demons threatened her son.

Danny tried to stop her from vaporizing a ghost that called him “soft,” but she just said, “He insulted my son. I will end him and salt the afterlife with his ectoplasm.”

Meanwhile, Thor and Loki were having several consecutive mental breakdowns.

“She’s supposed to be here!” Thor yelled, pointing at the now empty Helheim portal.

“She’s going to destroy Asgard!” Loki added, pulling at his hair and possibly having a crisis because he found a baby photo of himself and her and now has emotions.

They go to Earth. They go to Sakaar. They go everywhere trying to find Hela.

And then they finally, finally track her down to the Infinite Realms—an interdimensional mess of floating islands, undead bureaucrats, and haunted palace ruins where the sky bleeds green and time doesn’t work properly.

They arrive and find her seated on a throne beside a floating teenager with white hair and eyes like starlight.

The boy yawns. “Oh, hey. I’m Danny. You’re my uncles or whatever, right?”

Hela looks up. “You’re late.”

“Who is he?” Thor demands, pointing at Danny like a confused golden retriever.

“My son,” Hela says proudly, brushing Danny’s hair out of his face. “Dánjal Helson. King of the Infinite Realms. Also, the reason I haven’t erased Asgard from existence.”

Loki nearly faints.

“WHAT?”

Danny, bless his chaotic heart, just shrugs. “Yeah, hi. Ghost king. Time travel shenanigans. Clockwork nonsense. She adopted me during one of Odin’s genocidal field trips. I’m adorable, apparently.”

Thor tries to process this.

Fails.

Loki sits down and mutters something about therapy.

“You were supposed to destroy everything,” Thor says weakly.

“I did, darling,” Hela replies. “I destroyed my need for vengeance. I found something better.”

Danny grins. “Family.”

Suddenly Fenrir bounds in and tackles Danny because the giant wolf is basically his oversized murder-dog. Hela sips a chalice of glowing mist. Loki’s eye twitches. Thor is whispering to Mjolnir for emotional support.

Then the doors burst open.

It’s Skulker, Fright Knight, Ember, Spectra, and a dozen other ghostly rogues arriving for court. They bow before Danny and Hela. One of them screams because Hela smiles.

Danny raises an eyebrow. “Mom, please stop terrifying my council.”

“They like it.”

“I like not having heart attacks.”

Loki is losing it. “I was the adopted one. I was the weird one. Now there’s a ghost boy who’s half-dead, calls the Goddess of Death Mom, rules a dimension of horror, and has diplomatic immunity in the Nine Realms.”

Hela stands.

“Correction. We have diplomatic immunity. And he is my son. Touch him and I will unmake your soul.”

Danny leans against her like the chaos gremlin he is. “Aw. Love you too, Mom.”

Fenrir howls. The sky flickers.

Thor turns to Loki and says, “I think we have a nephew.”

Loki replies, “I think we’re going to die.”

Later, when Surtur rises and Asgard faces its prophesied doom, it’s Danny who appears in front of the fire demon with a floating crown and a sarcastic grin.

“Yo, Surtur. You’re doing a little too much.”

Surtur roars, “Who are you?”

“I’m the Ghost King. And that’s my mom you’re threatening. Back off.”

Hela watches from a floating throne made of bone and cosmic spite. Her son glows brighter than any sun. And for the first time in ten thousand years, the Goddess of Death laughs—truly, freely, joyously.

Because Danny isn’t just her son.

He’s her retribution.

He’s her redemption.

He’s hers.

She will burn the realms to keep him safe.

[pinklotushere]

Bat fan

Tim's eyes widen as he takes in the sight before him, his brain slowly processing the pictures.

"You're a bat fan," he says, his voice a mix of disbelief and amusement

Danny looks away, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

"There's literally a picture of me mid-grapple across from us. Dude, your blankets are covered in my family's symbol," Tim points out, his tone caught between exasperation and fondness.

Danny's face flushes as he mumbles “I’ve never seen that picture before in my life,” danny lies. “And—and you happen to share the same symbol as this space group from russia, total misunderstanding, I can see how you’re confused—"

Tim can't help but grin as he watches Danny squirm, caught red-handed in his superhero fanboy moment. It's adorable, really, how this powerful ghost boy turns into a blushing mess at the mere mention of Tim's vigilante alter ego.

Tim's eyes glitter with mischief as he moves closer to Danny, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. "So, you used your powers to stalk us, huh?"

Danny squirms, caught between embarrassment and the warmth of Tim's body.

"Maybe a little," he admits, barely audible, his lips brushing Tim's ear. "But it wasn't for long-! Like only a few times and-"

Tim kisses him, just to shut him up. He keeps his eyes open, if only to watch the way danny’s face melts under tim’s touch.

“You’re our biggest fan,” tim teases

Danny hides his face in tim’s neck. “You guys are so cool,” he complains, shy and soft-voiced. Tim hums, and his smile broadens; he has the cutest boyfriend. A cute, ghosty boyfriend who could dead-lift trucks. Yum

"Okay, fine," he mumbles, barely audible. "I might be a teensy bit of a fan."

Tim can feel the heat radiating from Danny's cheeks, and he can't help but grin. His boyfriend, this powerful ghostly being who could probably level a city block if he wanted to, is blushing like a schoolgirl over some superheroes.

"You guys just do so much good, y'know? It's hard not to admire that," Danny continues, his voice soft and shy.

Tim's heart melts a little more with each word. He pulls back slightly, just enough to see Danny's face, all flushed and adorable.

"You're ridiculous," Tim says fondly, unable to keep the smile off his face. "And absolutely perfect"

He playfully pokes Danny's side, relishing in the soft giggle it elicits. "You better not have any of the other's merch. you're all mine, ghost boy"

"Well..."

"That's it, you're not getting cujo in the divorce"

"Oh, come on," Danny whines, his eyes widening in mock horror. "You can't take away Cujo! He's our ghostly baby!"

Tim snorts, trying to keep a straight face but failing miserably.

"Fine," he concedes, rolling his eyes dramatically. "You can keep the spectral pooch, but I'm confiscating all your Nightwing posters."

Danny gasps, clutching his chest. "You wouldn't dare!" he exclaims before breaking into a fit of giggles.

Tim joins in, their laughter echoing through the room. As it dies down, Danny leans in, pressing his forehead against Tim's. "You know," he murmurs, a mischievous glint in his eye, "I might think jason is hot, but you'll always be my favourite Robin."

Tim groans but can't hide his smile. "You're impossible," he mutters, pulling Danny in for another kiss.

"I can't belive you just told me you think my brother’s hot"

Danny presses a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Forgive me?"

Tim pretends to consider it, tilting his head thoughtfully before a grin breaks across his face.

"I suppose I can let it slide... this time." He punctuates his words by capturing Danny's lips in a deep, searing kiss that leaves them both breathless and dizzy.

When they finally part, Tim's eyes are dark with something that makes Danny's non-existent heart race.

[sunvylovebug]

Whispers of the heart

↬Warnings: No warnings …⁠ᘛ⁠⁐̤⁠ᕐ⁠ᐷ

↬ Gender Neutral!Reader, they/them pronouns and third person narration (⁠*⁠˘⁠︶⁠˘⁠*⁠)⁠.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡

↬Author Note: I'm in love with this man. I need to keep playing so I can know more about the other characters (and hopefully I could write about them) but man, I love Mr. Crawling so much, I just want to write more and more about him, even though I'm a bit rusty lol

↬Summary: Y/N left that mysterious world full of curious entities... But they weren't alone. What was life like living with one of these entities?

↬ Word Count: 1,200 Words

Masterlist

Y/N had once been a wanderer in a world that wasn't their own; a strange ghostly dimension. Time had little meaning there. It was a place of shadows, whispers, and spectral beings who spoke in a language as foreign as the world itself. Y/N couldn't understand them, and they never seemed to understand Y/N either.

Lost, adrift in a sea of incomprehensible murmurs, at least until Y/N met him. Mr. Crawling had appeared from the dark, like a sliver of the abyss, a scary crawling being but one extremely sweet and caring. He had long hair that cascaded like a waterfall of ink, and, when he wasn't crawling, a tall, lean form that loomed over them like a silent guardian. His voice was strange, in a good way, almost gentle, But there was something about her that they couldn't quite distinguish: it was different. He didn’t speak in words they understood, but his actions were clear, he was there to protect them.

In the beginning, Y/N had been frightened. They didn’t know who or what Mr. Crawling was, only that he moved with an unsettling grace, always following them like a puppy, never leaving their side. But soon, they realized that he wasn’t a threat. He had a need, an overwhelming desire to be close, to offer comfort in a place that was foreign and frightening to Y/N. He was clingy, too clingy at times, always hovering near them, offering small gestures of affection they didn’t understand at first. A headpat here, a gentle nuzzle there, an embrace that felt strangely warm despite his ethereal nature and cold body.

The more time they spent together, the more Y/N realized that Mr. Crawling was different from the other entities in the ghostly world. Where others were distant and cold, he was compassionate and strangely affectionate. He didn’t speak the language of this world, but neither did Y/N. Yet, somehow, they communicated. Through some little words. Through silence. Through touch. Through the small, tender moments they shared in their strange, shared isolation.

It was Mr. Crawling who helped them escape the ghostly world. They had been lost, and he had guided them with soft whispers and a metaphorical hand that never let go, pulling them out of the abyss and back to their world.

Now, the two of them lived in a modest house at the edge of a sleepy town, far from the shadows of the world he'd once known. The house was small but cozy, tucked away beneath the embrace of towering trees and the endless sky. The walls were lined with books, books that Y/N had bought, books that Mr. Crawling didn't quite understand yet, but was fascinated by nonetheless (he especially liked the ones with cute pictures). The furniture was simple, the windows large, letting in sunlight that warmed their new home.

Y/N had found a quiet life for them. They were still adjusting, still processing everything that had happened, but there was peace now. There was a routine. And with that routine, Mr. Crawling adapted too.

At first, Y/N wasn’t sure how to teach him the human language. He didn’t speak it, after all he never needed to, but his curiosity had grown. Sometimes he'd watch them speak, listened intently, and began to mimic the sounds they made. His voice was soft at first, a murmur that seemed foreign, but with every passing day, it grew more confident. Slowly, Y/N began to understand his language too, a delicate, melodic series of his words, his clicks and hums, like a song that had been lost to time.

They both had so much to teach each other.

There were nights when Y/N would sit with him, books open between them, and they would practice together. Y/N would point to objects around the room, saying their names, and Mr. Crawling would repeat them in his hauntingly beautiful tone, he was adorable when he was focused, lips curling slightly as if savoring each new word. His progress was slow, but his dedication was unwavering. And in return, Y/N learned to understand his quiet language, his words of affection, his quiet murmurs of concern when he thought they were upset, his soft sounds that resonated like the wind brushing through the trees.

But it wasn’t just the language they shared, it was the quiet companionship. Mr. Crawling, despite his ghostly form, was very much alive in the ways that mattered. He was there in the mornings, wrapping them in soft, clingy hugs that kept them grounded, pulling them close as if afraid they might slip away. His physical affection was constant, sometimes in a bit of a suffocating way, but in a way that made Y/N feel safe, loved, and never alone. His headpats were his way of saying "I'm here and I love you", his nuzzles a wordless declaration of devotion.

There were moments when Y/N would catch him staring at them, just watching, inspecting their features, his face full of something unreadable, almost sorrowful. But then he would smile and nudge them gently as if to remind himself that they were here, together.

Life with Mr. Crawling wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs. They made it work. On quiet afternoons, they would sit by the window, Y/N with a book in their lap, and Mr. Crawling curled up beside them, his head resting on their shoulder. He would often fall asleep that way, his dark hair cascading over their arm like a curtain of dark silk. Y/N had come to treasure these small moments, the way the light filtered through the trees, the way his presence felt like a constant comfort, the way his hands would sometimes gently clasp theirs as if he feared letting go, as if he feared losing them.

And when the days grew long, and the silence of night enveloped them, Y/N would speak in their language he was still learning, telling him little things he loved to hear and understood a little, praising him, loving him, just telling him stories about their life, little experiences and moments, memories. And he would listen, his expression softening, his touch a gentle reminder that he was there, always, beside them forever.

Mr. Crawling would share his own stories, stories of his world, of the ghostly land from which he came. He spoke in his own language, a soft hum that filled the space between them, and though Y/N couldn’t understand all of it, they could feel the weight of his memories, the depth of his existence. He had been a part of that world, a lingering echo in a place they could never return to. But now, he was with them. And he was happy.

They had created their own little world, away from the shadows, away from the haunting whispers. It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs, full of quiet mornings, warm nights, and a love that transcended the space between words. Together, they had learned to speak a language of their own, one not of words, but of presence, of touch and of the quiet understanding that sometimes, the most important thing isn’t to speak, but to simply be together.

And with that, more was conveyed than all the words in the world could.

[funeral]

The difficulty of traumatic memory, however, is not limited to its unavailability and resistance to representation. Very much like a photograph, traumatic memory can be characterized by the excessive retention of details that cannot be integrated into a nontraumatic memory or comprehension of the past. The recovery of traumatic memory—and the process of healing—consists often in making the event seem less unreal by draining it of its vividness, its persistence, its haunting details, its color.

Ulrich Baer, "To Give Memory a Place", The Spectrality Reader

[give-me-a-minute-to-think]

One day, not long after Port Townsend, Edwin approached Charles when he returned from a hangout with Crystal.

"I am amendable to it, if you are," he said.

Charles, setting his backpack near the door, nodded slowly in confusion. "That's great, mate. What are you talking about?"

"Charles," said Edwin with the expression of a suffering saint, "what is the one thing you always ask of me?"

He frowned. "Always ask– oh!" A wonderful idea popped into his head. He started bouncing on the tips of his feet, just a little. "Wait! Are you serious?"

Edwin rolled his eyes in response, probably because Charles was grinning now. "Are you trying to change my mind?"

"No!" he hastily called. He clapped his hands and reached again for his bag. "What should we start with, you reckon? Swords? Knives? Oh, do you want to try the cricket bat?" he hadn't enchanted this one yet, didn't find the right time, right? What, with the process taking up to a full day and all, and he only had the one bat now so they'd have to pass it back and forth between them to practice with it which wasn't ideal but–

"Charles," Edwin interrupted his rambling, taking both his hands in his own to stop him from producing more weapons to the growing pile on the floor. "Do slow down, please. I am sure all these weapons are well fit to be of aid, but maybe start with… one?" he looked around at the pile, face growing hesitated.

"Oh," said Charles. That's right. This was a big step for Edwin, he was probably a little overwhelmed as it was, no need to make it worse buy being overly excited. "Of course. Here, let me just–" he swiped his collection back inside the bag and stood back up. "You set the pace, mate. No worries."

Edwin looked like he did worry, alright. His knuckles were ground together.

He never understood Edwin's aversion of learning how to defend himself. When Charles began practicing sword wielding, axe wielding, bat wielding – every weapon he could get his hands on – well, he felt more powerful than ever. Learning how to throw the most effective punch, training his body (or spectral from, whatever) to move faster and without thinking, becoming stronger than the bad guys, it all felt so… reassuring. It was like a promise. He wasn't gonna let anything happen to them, and this was how. It made him feel safe. He never managed to see why Edwin wouldn't want that for himself as well.

"I'd like to start from the basis, if you don't mind," said Edwin.

"We can do that," Charles said and stepped in front of him. "Let's do punches again, yeah? Then we can move on to kicks and then the weapon. You can try them all until you find one that you like, alright?" Edwin nodded, admittedly looking a bit nauseous. "Great. So–" he put one foot forward. "Do like me…"

They spent the next couple of hours at it, punching the air, and then each other when Charles decided he was ready for it, and then the sofa cushion after it became apparent that Edwin could not hit Charles with any meaningful force behind it. Charles could see he was getting impatient, his punches growing sloppier.

"You want to stop for today?" he asked, lowering the cushion. "We can read something or go for a walk. You made nice progress."

Edwin was breathing hard, and he didn't look at Charles when he shook his head. "We have yet to cover even the basis of kicks. Keep going."

"Edwin, no offence, but you look knackered, mate."

"I'm feeling perfectly fine."

"Well, but I'm getting kinda tired myself," said, changing tactics. "Let's take a break, alright? We can pick it up again tomorrow."

"But I still don't know anything," said Edwin, and Charles could see he was getting irritated.

"That's not true, you punch way better than when we started!"

"But not good enough to move on to kicks, evidently!"

"We can do kicks tomorrow, if you want," promised.

Edwin looked at him with an unreadable expression. "Are my punches perfect?"

"Well, not exactly," admitted, "but it won't be in a day, Edwin, it will take time–"

"No, it needs to be perfect now!"

"Why?"

"Because I wasn't ready, in Port Townsend. I need to be ready. If anything happens, if anyone tries something – I shan't be caught off guard again."

[writingwithcolor]

How can non-Jewish writers include Jewish characters in supernatural stories without erasing their religion in the process?

Anonymous asked:

I have a short story planned revolving around the supernatural with a Jewish character named Danielle (who uses they/them pronouns). Danielle will be one of a trio who will be solving the mystery of two brides' deaths on the day of their wedding. My concern with this is the possibility of accidentally invalidating Danielle's religion by focusing on a secular view of the afterlife. At the same time, I don't want to assume that Jewish people can't exist in paranormal stories, nor do I want to use cultural elements that don't belong to me. So, how do I make sure that Danielle is included in the plot without erasing their Jewishness?

Okay so to start with I think we need to ask a question about the premise: what is a secular afterlife? I’m not asking this to nitpick or be petty, but to offer you expanded ways of thinking through this issue and maybe others as well.

A Secular Afterlife

What is a secular afterlife? To begin with, I get what you mean. The idea of an afterlife we see in pop culture entities like ghost media owes more to a mixture of 19th-century spiritualist tropes drawn from titillating gothic novels than to anything preached from the pulpit of an organized house of worship. Yet those tropes--the ominous knocking noises from beyond, the spectral presences on daguerrotype prints, the sudden chill and the eerie glow, all of those rely on the idea of there being something beyond this life, some continuation of the spirit when the body has ceased to breathe. For that, you need to discount the ideas that the consciousness has moved on to another physical body and is currently living elsewhere, and that it was never separate from the body and has now ceased to exist. Can we say that this is secular?

More so: Gothic literature, as the name suggests, draws heavily on Catholic imagery, even when it avoids explicit references to Catholicism. Aside from the architectural imagery, Catholic religious symbols permeate the genre, as well as the larger horror and supernatural media genres that grew from it: Dracula flinches from a crucifix, priests expel demons from human bodies, Marley’s Ghost haunts Ebenezer Scrooge in chains. The concepts of heaven and hell, and nonhuman beings who dwell in those places, are critical to making the narratives work. 

The basis also draws from a biblical story, that of the Witch of Endor. The main tropes of Victorian spiritualism are present: Saul never sees the ghost of Samuel, only the Witch of Endor is able to see “A divine being rising” from wherever he rises from, and her vague description, “I see an old man rising, wearing a robe,” evokes the cold readings of charlatan mediums into the present (Indeed, some rabbinic sources commenting on this assert that this is exactly what was going on).

While neither of these views of its origin define the genre as the sole property of Catholicism--or of Judaism for that matter--it would be hard exactly to categorize them as secular.

A Jewish Perspective on ghosts

However, it’s not the case that ghost media is incompatible with Jewishness, assuming that it doesn’t commit to a view of heaven and hell duality that specifically embraces a Christian spiritual framework. 

Jewish theology is noncommittal on the subject of the afterlife. The idea of a division between body and soul in the first place is found in ancient Egypt, for instance, earlier than the earliest Jewish texts. In Jewish text it’s present in narratives like the creation story, in which God crafts a human body out of earth and then breathes life into it once it’s complete. It also appears in our liturgy: the blessings prescribed to be recited at the beginning of the day juxtapose Elohai Neshama, a blessing for the soul, with Asher Yatzar, expressing gratitude for the body, recited by many after successfully using the bathroom. 

Yet it’s not clear that this life-force is something separate than the body that lives beyond it, until the apparition of the Witch of Endor. The words we use to describe it, whatever it is, evoke the process of breathing rather than that of eternal life: either ruach (spirit, or wind) or neshama (soul, or breath): neither is a commitment to the idea that it does--or that it doesn’t--go somewhere else when the body returns to the earth. 

Jewish folklore, however, leans into the idea of ghosts and other spiritual beings inhabiting the earthly plane (and others). Perhaps most famous is the 1937 movie The Dybbuk, in which a young scholar engaging in kabbalistic practices calls upon dark forces to unite him and his fated love, only to find himself possessing her body as a dybbuk. It appears that he is about to be successfully exorcized, but ultimately when his soul leaves her body, hers does as well. 

More relevantly to your story, a Jewish folktale inspired the movie The Corpse Bride. In the folktale version, a newly-engaged man jokingly recites the legal formula he will soon recite at his wedding, and places his ring on the finger of a nearby corpse--a reference to a time when antisemitic violence is said to have gotten worse not only at Jewish and Christian holidays as it does still to this day, but around Jewish weddings as well. The murdered bride stands up, a corpse reanimated complete with consciousness, and demands that the bridegroom honor his legal obligation. 

In the movie, the bride gives up her demand willingly: her claim on him is emotional rather than legal, and she finally accepts that he has an emotional connection with another person, that he doesn’t love her. In the folk tale, the dead woman takes him to court to decide whether their marriage is legal, since he spoke the legal words to her in front of witnesses as is required, and the court rules that the dead do not have the right to make legal demands on the living. In this version, the moral of the story is that a legal formula is an obligation; that when he jokingly bound himself to the corpse, he not only disrespected the dead but also the legal framework that structures society, and by so doing risked being obligated to keep his side of a contract he never intended to enact. 

This speaks to the ways that a Jewish outlook can differ from a Christian-influenced “secular” one. Christian-influenced cultural ideas can often focus around feeling the right thing, while Jewish stories will often center on doing the right thing. Does the Corpse Bride leave because she realizes she is not the one he loves? Because she--or he--learned a valuable lesson? Or because she loses her court case? It’s not that the boy’s emotions are irrelevant to the story--the tension, the suspense, the horror of the story takes place primarily within the boy’s emotional landscape--but emotions on their own are not a solution. The question “should he marry her” can be answered emotionally, but “has he married her” can only be answered by a legal expert, and once it has been the deceased bride may not have changed her emotional attachment to him, but she no longer has legal standing to pursue her claim. 

Centering legal rectitude over emotional catharsis isn’t a requirement for having Jewish characters in your story, but it’s worth thinking about what is and isn’t universal, what is and isn’t actually all that secular. 

Meanwhile, back at the topic:

Where does any of this place Danielle?

Well, unless you’re positing a universe in which Christian or other deities or cosmologies are confirmed to exist (See Jewish characters in a universe with author-created fictional pantheons for more on that topic), there’s no reason why they shouldn’t be perfectly fine interacting with whatever the setting you’re building throws at them. 

My wishlist for this character and setting runs more to the general things to consider when writing fantasy settings with Jewish characters: 

Don’t confirm or imply that Jesus is a divine being. That means no supernatural items like splinters of the cross, grails, nails, veils, etc. There’s nothing particularly powerful or empowering about this one guy who lived and died like so many others.

Don’t show God’s body and especially not God’s face, or confirm that any other gods or deities exist, whether that’s Jesus, Aphrodite, or Anubis, or someone you made up for the context. 

Don’t put Danielle in a position where they’re going to play into an antisemitic trope like child murder, blood drinking, world domination, or financial greed. If you have to, name it and let Danielle express discomfort with or distaste for those actions both because Jewish values explicitly oppose all of those things but also because Danielle as a Jewish character would be painfully aware of these stereotypes as present and historical excuses for antisemitic violence. 

Do consider what Danielle’s personal practice might look like. What does Danielle do on Shabbat? What do they eat or refrain from eating? What are their memories of Jewish holidays and how is their current holiday observance different than their childhood? I know I say “Jewishness is diverse” on every ask, but it is, and these questions--which also underscore how very much Judaism is rooted in one’s actions during this life--will help you develop how Judaism actually functions to inform Danielle’s character, even if you don’t spell out the answers to each of these questions in text. 

Do let Danielle find joy, comfort, and identity in their Jewishness not just in contrast with Christianity but simply because it’s part of the wholeness of their character. I know the primary representation of Jewishness is a snappy one-liner in a Christmas episode followed by the Jewish character joining in the Christmas spirit, blue edition, but make room for Jewishness to inform how Danielle approaches the events of your story, or why they decide to get or stay involved.  

-Meir

Hi it’s Shira with some Jewish ghost story recs written from inside–

When The Angels Left the Old Country by Sacha Lamb (deliriously good queer YA Jewish paranormal, mainstream enough that it’s got a good chance of being at your local library and won all kinds of awards)

The Dyke and the Dybbuk by Ellen Galford (sorry for the slur, warning for a paragraph of biphobia in the book but it’s an older book. I read this right before my divorce so my memories are super fuzzy but it’s about this modern day lesbian who gets possessed by the ghost of a different lesbian from hundreds of years earlier in Jewish history.) Nine of Swords Reversed by Xan West z’L of blessed memory - another queer Jewish paranormal.

The general plot is that two partners are struggling with how to be honest with each other about the effect disability is having on them. It’s got a very warm and fuzzy cozy vibe but kink culture is central to the worldbuilding so if that isn’t your vibe I didn’t want you to go in unaware.

The Dybbuk in Love by Sonya Taaffe. I don’t remember the details but I remember loving it, it’s m/f and romance between possessor and possessed.

I wrote a really short one called A Man of Taste where a gentile vampire woman and a Jewish ghost/dybbuk get together.

~S

[lavenderprose]

Emmrich's character development is really displayed in his evolution from Helicopter Dad to fervent observer of Bring Your Son To War Day. It really appeals to me on a molecular level and it's something you completely miss if you go lich route. Oh wah wah I'm afraid of death and dying okay join the CLUB. We're all rawdogging our existential dread. The man doesn't need to live forever he needs therapy and a spouse to hold his hand and tell him it's okay to cut the spectral umbilical cord with his skeleton child. We watched this man do the equivalent of process his own fear of death through the lens of his own child's brush with death and come out happier and more aware of himself on the other side. It's such a good story. It is, in my opinion, THE happy ending. Emmlich could never. What's he got, special new senses? Pah. My man Emmrich 'The Human' Volkarin has love and a legacy. They could never make me like you Emmlich.