#rekindling of the human soul

[amorosebeing]

Good song for our world. A Fixer upper indeed.

Edit: Forgot the video at first lol

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

maybe it’s because i have the “Happy Birthday, Nahida” music stuck in my head, but-

the Fatui finding out about Childe’s Foul Legacy and immediately taking advantage of it. using the energy from the transformation to power machinery, forcing Childe to stay in the form for long periods of time to train him more, make him an even better fighter, and if he doesn’t comply, they “discipline” him. he doesn’t remember it when the transformation finally gives out- Il Dottore made sure of that- but Foul Legacy begins slipping beyond his control, becoming guarded and frightened, lashing out at the smallest things, which is exactly what the Fatui want. and Childe himself feels dull, emotions deadened and hollow as the upper Harbingers wave away his questions.

Foul Legacy will become a weapon of war, even if they have to erase “Tartaglia” entirely.

eventually Childe finds it difficult to differentiate between himself and his Foul Legacy form- day by day he loses more control over it, glancing down to find his hands suddenly transformed into claws or his mouth filled with sharp fangs, until one day the human Childe is lost, and only Foul Legacy remains. the Harbinger Tartaglia becomes buried, any mentions of him scraped away or excused with him being killed in action. Foul Legacy becomes the Fatui’s trump card- a cold, emotionless beast that obeys only the Tsaritsa and the Harbingers, staying sealed in a cage when not “operational” while Tartaglia, Childe, and Ajax are lost to time.

Foul Legacy as the Fatui’s first and best Abyssal weapon.

and you as the ordinary agent who accidentally brings back the human Ajax.

[azure-cherie]

PAC : Who of the nine Greek muses do you embody ? A message from the muse

➪Pile : 1-2-3 ☟︎︎︎ 4-5-6 ☟︎︎︎ 7-8-9

Hii loves how have you been , I'm back again with a reading, I hope you enjoy this please choose with your intuition and take what resonates , Reblogs, comments feedbacks everything is highly appreciated ❤️

If you liked this and would like to book or would want a bigger reading on the same topic :

Masterlist , paid readings , paid readings 2

Pile 1 :

Muse of music and lyric poetry

Channelled messages: " let go of societal restraints " , " paint the canvas of your life , write a poem about a wall " , " often see yourself as an ancient women of honour " , " feed the doves "

She comes forth to tell you about your potential how you're a very meditative being , you are so good at chanelling and you should do it more often , ask her to be your guide and write down all that comes through to you flow in your thinking and the ideas that come forth

Lean more into the devotional aspect of your life , see everything with the vibration of love. The trees the humans the animals , devote more into self love and worship the gods you already do .

Learn the right way to connect to the moon , you're in your journey and this is one of the crucial times , you're almost at the end of a karmic cycle stay stiff and strong

Don't get into arguments , if you do have mishaps with someone , lean into releasing the anger through creating music or producing tunes .

Take practical approaches to life , if someone says no to you do the thing on your own , your guides are always taking care of you .

Pile 2 :

Muse of dance and choral poetry .

Channelled messages : " learn about the folk music and dances where you stay " , " when in the blues play the beats " , " give more to the society in forms of art " , " start the YouTube channel"

Your devotion towards your deity or your guides is really admirable and that is something that's one of your best qualities people online or in person admire your liking towards a deity you inspire them .

The calmness of mind that can be attained through yoga is something she wants you to do , imagine a blue beam of light when you meditate , she tells you to connect to your primordial life form your soul .

Know about the necessary sacrifices one has to do in their life , your sacrifices now will bring you rewards later , don't fall for instant gratification

Abundance is soon to come in your life but work on cultivating a sense of detachment towards money , obsession ruins everything.

There might me a rock bottom moment in your life soon , she asks you to remain in your path as a human and as a soul take the lessons and move on soon you will alchemize your pain into passion and glory . You transform everything you're a becon of light .

Pile 3 :

Muse of hymns and sacred poetry

Channelled messages : " Levitate " , " dream big " , " nice downtown tshirt " , " the life that one has is a sum and minus of that they do "

If you're interested in writing do it , there might be an opportunity approaching you soon in this sector , though there's a warning about a setback if you don't take the opportunity at the right time don't worry you'll do great believe in the power of wishes.

You might rekindle a childhood bond on the basis of liking of movies or songs .

Business sector might have new opportunities your fortune is about to change you're gonna have the power to do what you want in your life because you're the creator of it , your destiny is now on hold make the best use of free will.

Connect more to the oceans and moon , fireflies etc , be in nature more and stay grounded .

Honour your soul by serving the temple you're in your own body , take care of your body give it ample rest and food .

Pile 4 :

Muse of tragedy

Channelled messages : " Dwelling on past has no rewards " , " crazy is as good as the sane" , " time flowes and glows and you grow "

Don't choose a hard life away from your desires because you're scared of disappointing people your path is enlightened more as you connect more to yourself .

Give into dark feminine energy and live in your truth , if you remain often confused or scared work on your root chakra .

Connect more to your guides through paintings and leave offerings of metal , feathers , corn etc

It's time to finally shine you're going from the hermit to an influencer you're gonna be famous it might start small but it will build up .

Keep away from external influences that stop your growth drop bad friends and family .

Pile 5 :

Muse of love poetry

Channelled messages: eat healthy and enriching foods , read about the love you already behold , the depths of see are beautiful and so is your heart of depth.

Abundance in the sector of love is coming soon you're gonna make the haters jealous , might even win a pagent or competition.

You might have felt Beauty is your curse but life's gonna show you how it's not you're gonna be so hight so uplifted I see you shining like a star

One has to prepare for glory start by saying affirmations and working on your third eye and root chakra .

Read more about lovers from mythology like Persephone Hades , Aphrodite ares , Radha Krishna etc

The boons served by the goddess are yours to keep and no one can question that , you're being divinely blessed and you'll be happy and dancing soon .

Pile 6 :

Muse of comedy and Idyllic poetry

Chanelled messages: Search for the small joys, poppies , these boots are meant for walking , spring equinox fairy

There's a confirmation in case you wanna go for the acting sector , this sector will require a lot of hardwork .

There's also a warning regarding someone in your job your boss or your guru they might take credit for some assignment you did beware and if possible say no because that thing might get your superior a promotion

You are to search bliss in satisfaction about what you already have the moon is to be admired by you the power to be soked it , are you ready for the full moon .

You're intelligent and people really admire you for that , gemini energy.

Move in your life in your true path of light don't be afraid or dim your light , your aura might have hints of white colour .

Pile 7:

Muse of epic poetry

Chanelled messages: Blow the bubbles up , get into kitchen witchery, Artemis , cry me a river

Don't give people the benefit of the doubt if you don't like someone let them go .

Fame is eminent in your energy, life coaches might help you , your aunt is giving you good guidence follow her .

Do your school projects and specially eat tangerine and other fruits that make you feel happy

Serve the world and create peace each small step is a long one in the collective , small things create big impact do your part and be sure of the effects .

Moon water energy and full moon is great for you to invite luxuries in your life , ground your root chakra and connect to your third eye your ancestors will be sending you messages.

Pile 8 :

Muse of astronomy

Chanelled messages: Fly me to the moon , peals and sandbox , honesty is the best policy , go go cheerleader

The first message for you is to balance all your chakras it's crazy my oracle deck pulled all chakra cards omg I feel like there soon will be a kundalini awakening for you

You're almost in your last stage of awakening get into the cosmic dance of life your life is about to change , abundance is coming

Hard message to get through but someone in your relationship might be cheating or there might be someone who has an eye on your partner and might try to frame them . Only for some people

Listen to your higher self write a letter to them

Your path from now on is of the hermit it might be lonely but it's worth it discoveries are on your way in fields of history, psychology, quantum mechanics etc.

Pile 9 :

Muse of history

Chanelled messages: 13 missed calls , glow up is loading , search in the Egyptian archives , glow and peach coloured cheeks

The number six is significant, also specifically for someone there's this person who is delaying your glow up by doing some nasty as spell , might be a close friend

You are ignoring some signs from the universe , they're coming again and again and you're ignoring it look into it closely , you're elevating in your consciousness.

Your energy levels are high and you're matching ahead in your journey setbacks are never the end the sheer power of desire iss enough to keep going .

You're slowly climbing the stairs of life to become confident and assertive you might even call upon a partner soon who is very sure about themselves.

You should plant more trees and learn about them about their origination etc , i specifically get about Tulsi and the lore behind it . Some others would be eucalyptus, basil and marigold.

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed this

Have a great day/ night ♥️🌹

[twinkling-moonlillie]

Lucifer Morningstar Relationship Headcanons!

A/N: I haven't written for Lucifer before, but this man has my heart and soul so I am going to start! Also, feel free to DM or chat! I love talking and meeting new people, and I need more people to simp with over Lucifer.

Warnings: Minors do not interact, these headcanons include both SFW and NSFW

✶ Lucifer is deeply sentimental, never one to shy away from his feelings. When he is in love, it is all consuming and a driving force for him. He would do anything for those he loves.

✶ He is a gentle lover, a tender lover; a foil to Adam, if you will. When he is in love, he takes it slow, gently drowning you in his affections.

✶ A gift giver? Absolutely! Whether it be handcrafted pieces of art that he made himself or buying you stuff that reminded him of you, he revels in the idea of lavishing you with gifts.

✶ If we are to assume that you are with him after Lilith, expect some slow burn. Not only does Lucifer have to live with the consequences of his decision to bestow free will upon humanity, but the woman he (presumably) loved left him. The guilt he fee is massive, so please just be patient with him. Let him open up to you. Don't make him feel like a burden.

✶ Once he does start to fall in love with you, the first thing he will do is take off his wedding ring. He is a little hesitant, but the way you make him feel...it's refreshing and invigorating.

✶ After years of being too afraid to dream, you rekindled his passion. How could he not fall in love with that?

✶ He loves kissing you - forehead kisses, hand kisses, cheek kisses - he will kiss you until his lips turn violet and melt off.

✶ Although he doesn't acknowledge it often, he has a tendency to be a bit possessive. Not that he is controlling, but more so that he wants to show you off. He wants everyone in hell to know that he pulled the most beautiful and kind person to ever grace the universe.

✶ Some days when he has to go to meetings early in the morning (he is the King after all), he will always make sure to wake you up softly so you know when he is leaving...only to kiss you back to sleep.

✶ Going along with his love of craftsmanship, you become his muse. There will be several different versions of you as a duck, an apple, whatever comes to his mind really.

✶ Lucifer as a whole is a bit eccentric and peculiar, but charming nonetheless. There is a reason why he was able to seduce Lilith and Eve.

✶ If you two pursue a relationship further, you must be able to get along with Charlie. Charlie is Lucifer's pride and joy, and if you can't get along...well Lucifer would choose his baby over you.

✶ But that's alright because Charlie is very easy to get along with!

✶ He frequently uses pet names such as sweetie and sweetheart, as well as angel and apple pie.

✶ He always calls you the apple of his eye.

✶ NOW TO GET ON TO THE SPICY STUFF >:)

✶ Take one look at that man and tell me he ISN'T a service top. You can't! It's impossible (/j).

✶ Lucifer is desperate to prove himself, to prove his worth, even if he knows you love him. That's why he loves servicing you; he will spend hours pulling you further and further into pleasure.

✶ We all have seen episode eight, we know that he will spend hours between your thighs until you are an overstimulated mess. He gets off on the idea of you relying on the pleasure he gives you and no one else.

✶ It's a pride thing.

✶ His favorite position to have you in is missionary. He just loves to hold you close as he slowly enters you, being able to see how you writhe and become a moaning mess for him.

✶ He also loves to hold you close from behind and pound you (spoon fucking). That's mostly reserved for morning sex though.

✶ Again, he is a deeply sentimental and loving man so he prefers to make love to you than fuck you. But he definitely could fuck you if he wanted to.

✶ His wings have a tendency to poof out right as he is on the verge of coming. Sometimes he wraps them around you, sheltering you in a heavenly cloud.

✶ He has a daddy kink and a breeding kink. No, I will not take any arguments against this.

✶ He just desperately wants to claim you fully, and what better way to do that if not through breeding your pretty pussy.

✶ But really, this man is desperately in love with you. Please let him love you <3

[moineauz]

helooo, 1 ticket for Exodus, starring Boothill & gn Reader as main leads

𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ THE HOUSE OF MUSICA PRESENTS... 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐘 𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 ノ𝐄𝐗𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐒 — boothill !

synopsis: a gradually rekindling bond between two ill-fated souls. in other words, you encounter a partner you never thought you'd see again.

side comments: not me writing more boothill... also this was partly inspired by the song too sweet by hoizer.

extra: boothill calls reader 'doll', uses the word pretty for the reader, mentions of alcohol, boothill and reader have their issues ig, gn reader, boothill backstory spoilers, fluff and angst word count: 1, 385

Being part of the IPC was like a ticket to an expressway: smooth sailing amongst galaxies and stars. You could have slipped your wrist in the rings of planets; allowing them to adorn your human flesh in glitter and gold.

"I reckoned the IPC would send one em' tonight," insinuated the man beside you, his voice husky and gruff, "Didn't think you'd fancy your whisky neat."

You share a winsome smile, still gazing ahead, lifting the glass to your lips unfazed, "Who said I couldn't have my whisky neat?"

The man scoffs before chuckling lowly, "Well, I thought the IPC are a little..." he leans forward, his cool breath brushing against the shell of your ear, "Soft, don't you think doll?"

The bar is thronged that evening. Chatter warms the walls while candlelight swishes above in scintillating opulence. One chime after another, click and sway, swish and pull. Your ears heed the bar lines of inordinate movements like a song. Even the subtle whirl of the man's arms and the click of his heel is oddly pleasant.

"And I thought galaxy rangers keep to themselves," you languidly turn your head to meet his face; fixing your eyes on his like the head of an arrow kissing its bullseye. "A shame I have to endure your presence. Considering you're a ranger, you're awfully loud," you riposted.

"Ha! You don't know what you're missin' doll," the man teases, yet, there is an edge to it, "Do all IPC members talk like that? All bark and no bite?"

"I'd like to say bite and no bark," you reckon smoothly, like velvet curtains draping over the walls. "Why waste your breath when all you need is a single shot?"

A splitting grin grows on his face while he shakes his head charmed, "Now you're talkin' my language doll! One bullet does make a heck of a difference."

You bite the insides of your cheek, your jaw tight before him, "Spare me the small talk Boothill," you retorted placidly: a facade of indifference casting a shadow over your face. "You know I don't fancy playing cat and mouse in your boots."

"Oh you never change," he chides, placing his left shoulder on the bar's smooth counter. Boothill's face rested in his metal palms as his shiny eyes settled on you. "That's your only fault."

The corner of your lips quiver slightly, he doesn't notice. "Even metal carries its dents," you pause, your words suspending in the air's murky atmosphere, "And it seems you carry that burden quite well."

Boothill stills as you call for another fill. Whisky trickles into your glass; swishing in hues of sweet amber. It soothes the bitter lump in your throat as it gushes down sip after sip like the ocean current churning away.

Silence draws you closer; knitting you together. You heave a sigh, gingerly placing the glass on the counter, not a sound echoing above. "You always drank your whisky neat," you remarked bitterly, "And you always got drunk afterwards."

Boothill's smiles echo some ineffable tenderness and it caresses your cheek despite its distance. "Ha! Don't make me all sappy over here doll, might have to bring her out if you keep this up." Despite his words, Boothill's voice is strangely hushed: hollow like the crevices of a skeleton. Or a body that doesn't quite fit its soul.

You smile, pushing the bounds of his words with your voice, "Then bring her out Boothill. It's been some time since I last saw your precious gun. A shame you hold her so much closer."

"As sharp as ever," Boothill conceded; twirling the gun like a toy. Its varnish slick like butter as it glistened under candlelight. "Seems I have to up my ante."

In one swift movement, Boothill instinctively slips his nippy hands around your waist: his belt of bullets pressed against your hips with benign familiarity. His other hand intertwines with yours, like the lacing of a corset- tight and tender. Boothill lifts your arm, raising it with frivolous flare accompanied by a wicked grin. Your shoes click against the bar's smooth surface and Boothill leans forward. The shadows of his bright face made known to you anew. Now, the two of you stand, one breath apart.

"Seems like old habits die hard," he mutters, his eyes following the curve of your lips and the pools of your eyes, "Can't help it when you keep sittin' here all pretty. Sippin' whisky for fudger's sake..."

You raise your eyebrow tentatively before an unabashed smile stretches across your face and you giggle. Your laugh slips through the air like a fine mist and Boothills breathes it in. The cogs of his chest whirl a touch faster as you sparkle in all your quiet limelight: tucked away in a corner bar, it beats boldly one step at a time

"Looks like the IPC employee can laugh," Boothill teases, the jazz band kicking off its rhymes with the beckoning call of the trumpet.

"Is that all you think of me?" you surmised, a mirthful expression pressed against your skin, "I expected better from you," you teased.

"Shallow?" Boothill muses, the band's drummer now pushing the song as you and Boothill shuffle to the center of the bar, feet moving as one, "I'm all but shallow; especially when I'm dancing."

You press your hand on his metal shoulder, the spark in your eyes dimming slightly, "Then show me."

Being part of the IPC was like a ticket past the waiting rooms and into the hospital bed: refuge under the captive's wings. You could have laid your heart there to rest; allowing yourself to be part of a grand tapestry, one of them.

"Looks like you still have it in you after all this time," remarks Boothill as his fingers find their way to your waist, "One more song?"

"I've had enough," you state, yet, the roused smile on your face still beams, "It's late."

Boothil clicks his tongue. "Come on... just like the old times, wouldn't hurt for another spin," surmised Boothill, his voice oddly mellow with a trace of dejection.

"You don't want to dance," you rebutted, "You want to talk."

You slip your hand off his metal body, its coolness lingering on your fingertips like a ghost. Boothill blinks, his hands now fallen by his sides, the grin on his face tight as he shakes his head.

"I'd reckon you'd... catch on. You always had bigger fish to fry."

"You know I hate fish."

Boothill chuckles. However, it's mellow and lush. Reminiscent of the open plains the three of you once wandered. Sweetgrass brushing against your legs in rhythm with the breeze. The cusp of the morning sun nestled in the palms of your hands like a nest. In the evenings you lingered amongst free horses; braiding through the stars and their lush mane while weaving through riverbeds, singing sweet dreams.

"I miss the kid too."

Boothill smiles, "I know."

"Then keep your promise," you amble towards him, your shoulders in parallel as you promptly seize his hat, swiftly placing it on your head. "If you want your hat back," you jested, "Meet me at the bar when you're done catching your 'Acheron.'"

Boothill smirks, placing his hands on his hips, languidly leaning to the side, "And why would I do that? I've got plenty of hats."

You scoff, "Is that so? Then I guess I don't owe you my answer."

Boothill pauses abruptly, his eyes wide, "You-"

"I still have the ring," you interject, a subtle quiver emerging from the back of your voice, "But I never gave you my answer."

"Doll I-"

"You vanished before I could give you my answer."

Boothill grows quiet and you sigh. Neverthless, you slip your business card into his pockets and press a curt kiss on his cheek, his hat still on your head, "So keep your promise, Boothill."

Boothill nods; heaving a prompt sigh before gazing up at the ceiling, a spark flickering within the corners of his eyes, "I won't let you down."

"Good," you surmise, gradually ambling away, his back still turned from you and vice versa, "I won't let you down."

Boothill grins quietly, muttering to himself as the aroma of whisky clings onto his metal body, "You never did, not once doll. Not once."

masterlist.

[breelandwalker]

Frost Moon - November 26-27, 2023

Grab your scarves and mittens, witches - it's time for the Frost Moon!

Frost Moon

The Frost Moon is the name given to the full moon which occurs in the month of November. In temperate zones in the Northern Hemisphere, November is the month during which the first frost or first hard freeze of the season is usually observed.

Like most full moon names, this is an English translation of a traditional name used by one or more North American indigenous groups, in this case the Cree and the Assiniboine. Similarly, the Anishinaabe and the Ojibwe also called this month the Freezing Moon or Freezing Over Moon respectively, as indigenous naming conventions usually refer to the entire lunar month and not just the full moon itself. Other indigenous names include Deer Rutting Moon (Dakota and Lakota), Whitefish Moon (Algonquin), Leaf Fall Moon (Catawba), and Digging (or Scratching) Moon (Tlingit). The latter refers to the habit of deer and other creatures scratching up the ground to find hidden food caches, as well as bears digging their dens for winter hibernation.

Another common name for this month's full moon is the Beaver Moon, due to the increased sightings of these busy little creatures shoring up their dams and food stores before the first hard freeze of winter. (Unfortunately, it's also a reference to the peak days of the North American fur trade, signaling the optimal hunting time for beaver pelts.)

In some modern pagan traditions, particularly those claiming Celtic lineage, the November moon is also called the Mourning Moon. This occurs when the November moon is the final full moon before the winter solstice. In 2023, the November is indeed a Mourning Moon, as the December full moon falls on the 26th, a good few days after the solstice. (I was not able to find an original source for this claim, but given the celebration of the beloved dead in October, a subsequent period of mourning and remembrance makes sense. It may also be a reference to the Catholic All Souls Day, but that's just speculation.)

This particular Frost Moon will be at peak fullness in the early hours of November 27th (4:16am EST), so the moon may appear to be full on both Sunday the 26th and Monday the 27th, depending on where you live.

What Does It Mean For Witches?

This is the month when migrations are finishing up, animals are finishing their cold weather preparations, the temperature starts to plummet, and fall descends rapidly into winter. If you haven't finished your preparations for winter, mundane or magical, this is probably your last chance to do it. (Don't forget to prioritize and delegate!)

With the days getting shorter and the nights getting colder, the temptation to hunker down and hibernate is STRONG. But we have to remember that just like the eponymous Beaver, humans have to stay active during the cold months. Start stockpiling ways to keep yourself busy and motivated, since that Seasonal Slump is on the horizon for many of us.

Consider also the beaver's dam. You've spent the whole year working towards all kinds of goals. Is there still something blocking your way? What might it be and how can you best address and remove the obstacle? Or, alternatively, is it time to stop and rest and see if that roadblock will clear itself with a little time and patience?

In keeping with the Mourning Moon moniker, this could be a good time for reflection and remembrance. Think back on what you've built this year and take time to be proud of yourself. Remember what is dear to you, take a moment to miss someone who is gone, and consider rekindling bonds that may have lapsed or grown tenuous during the hustle and bustle of daily life. It's always a good time to tell someone you love them.

On a practical note, if you have pets that regularly stay outdoors overnight, start bringing them inside or make sure they have a shelter that is properly warm, clean, and secure against human or animal intruders. If it's too chilly for you to be out without a coat, it's too chilly for the critters, fur or no fur. PLEASE do not leave your furry friends out in the cold!

What Witchy Things Can We Do?

As we prepare for winter, this is an excellent time to shore up those magical protections. Check on your longterm spells to see if they need refreshing, or just go ahead and do a quick cleanse-and-reclaim as a proactive measure. Even if everything is solid, practice your technique by shoring up points of egress or adding a new layer to the existing wards or trying a new visualization or method for personal protections. Create a new charm or talisman to carry you through the winter or make something festive and decorative that could be given as a gift.

On the subject of cleansing, this is a good time to clear out any stale or disruptive energy that might be lingering from the recent change of seasons. Solstices can be times of transformation, but change is rarely a calm or peaceful process and it brings its' own set of challenges and upheavals. If things have gotten a little more chaotic than you'd like, take a moment to put your house in order, metaphysically speaking.

If you're partial to jar spells, consider putting one together to help maintain safety and abundance through the winter months. If you're going to be traveling for the upcoming holidays, a bit of luck and protection for the journey wouldn't go amiss either.

Try a frost divination. If your area is starting to see overnight frosts, take a moment in the morning to examine the patterns that the frost leaves on the windows of your home or vehicle. Do you see any patterns or images in the ice crystals? Check the weather forecast and whisper a question into the wind when the overnight temps will drop below freezing. Then in the morning, see if there's an answer waiting for you!

Happy Frost Moon, witches! 🌕❄

Further Reading:

Additional Lunar Calendar posts

Full Moon November 2023: The Beaver Moon's Spectacular Spiritual Meaning, The Peculiar Brunette.

Beaver Moon: Full Moon in November 2023, The Old Farmer's Almanac.

Beaver Full Moon in November - Buckle and Hocken, TimeAndDate.com.

Everyday Moon Magic: Spells & Rituals for Abundant Living, Dorothy Morrison, Llewellyn Publications, 2004.

Image Credit - iStockPhoto.

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[zal-cryptid]

Have any children or teenagers been taken to toyland?

Children are our future. There's still hope for them. Krampus doesn't turn anyone under 18 into toyfolk.

That Karen, however, who threw a tantrum at your local air port cuz she refused to wear a face mask and then purposely began coughing on everyone out of spite before being dragged out by security while shouting some racially charged obscenities? Yeah, I hope you enjoy being a glockenspiel for Christmas, lady.

Now, that's not to say human children have never visited or stepped foot on the island before. There was Marie back in the 1810s, and those trouble makers who made asses out of themselves back in the 1880s, among other occasional incidents.

Toyland...is designed to rekindle a certain spark in the soul - one that children don't need to worry about because they already have it. Is it innocence? Is it the true meaning of playing and having fun? Is it childlike wonder? Is it some sort of dark, twisted reflection of all that? Who knows.

[syzygyzip]

The Soul Still Burns: Analysis of the Lords of Cinder (DS3)

What follows is a short essay on the Lords of Cinder from Dark Souls 3, exploring their symbolism on spiritual and metatextual levels. After that is a related reading of Slave Knight Gael, the final adversary of the Dark Souls trilogy.

The Lords of Cinder are in many ways the primary adversaries of Dark Souls 3. This title they share, “Lord of Cinder,” refers to a personage who has rekindled the first flame, keeping the cycle of light and dark going.

Cinder is a substance which continues to burn without the presence of fire but does not reduce to ash. So euphemistically, it seems that the Lords are somehow stuck in their process of purification, and the game suggests that the world is stuck along with them; this is why it is the Ashen One’s task to “set them upon their thrones”—to hurry them along and thus allow the world to follow its natural decline. As individual characters, each of these Lords represents a different attitude that complicates and prolongs the cycle.

Through these stubborn Lords the game is commenting on at least two things. On the metaphysical level, it reflects the Buddhist idea that certain attitudes keep people reincarnating over and over again, unable to extricate themselves from the material world of suffering (samsara). While on the metatextual level, the game is suggesting that certain attitudes keep players coming back to Dark Souls again and again, starting new games, making new builds and revisiting old files.

The idea there on the metaphysical side finds an easy analogy in Buddhist doctrine: the “three poisons,” the three root causes of suffering. These are hatred, greed, and delusion. What’s interesting is that these essential vices also fit pretty easily onto the different types of players that are being caricatured by the Lords. We’ll break these correspondences down in a second.

But First: Why Do They Correspond? So we have these sets of three. Three lords, three poisons in Buddhism, three types of Souls players. How convenient. When we analyze art, we sometimes ask, “Huh, is this structure really there, or am I projecting it into the material?” And if the structure is really there, baked into the work, that doesn’t mean that it’s due to developer intention. Archetypal forms sometimes show up in work via an unconscious influence, be it due to the cultural milieu, personal psychology, or some a priori biological disposition of the human being.

And the thing about Dark Souls is that it’s an unusually honest piece of art, in that its creative team allows their own free associations and intuitions to show up in the work without too much self-censorship or questioning. They make space for a mystery to show up on its own terms, and in leaving its riddles unanswered, there is more space for discovery by the people who play it.

It should also be said that cultural ideas persist for a reason. Beneath the ethics and ideology of the people who originally named the Buddhist “three poisons,” there may be something timeless, something perennially descriptive of human nature. If that is the case, then it would make sense for this same triplicity to unfurl itself in other cultural products. So for one reason or another, these three poisons, these addictions, show up diegetically in the characters and are also expressed in player psychology.

I say all this just because sometimes I feel very aware of the disconnect between much of Souls lore discourse and the broader field of mythological study. Since we are gamers first, there may be this tendency to want to “solve” the lore, but that’s not what we’re doing here. Myth functions because it elaborates our experience of the world through affective resonance; it attaches images and characters and stories which help us anchor our own prelinguistic impressions of the world, cultivating our sensitivity there.

Anyway, let’s look at these Lords.

Abyss Watchers Poison: Hatred The lore of the Abyss Watchers is pretty clear: they have an obsessive fixation on the abyss, and are ready to raze an entire town if they suspect abyssal encroachment. This obsession has literally possessed them, as they are now “abyss touched.” Gaze too much into the abyss, etc. They carry such strong contempt for the disavowed object that they don’t care what comes between it and their sword. This is clearly demonstrated by the fact that they are a brotherhood yet are unhesitatingly slaughtering themselves again and again. Hatred has made them blind, and has also caused them to resign their individuality (they are identical, mere instruments of a transpersonal grudge). They cannot die, their hatred keeps them locked in combat.

Type of Player: competitive | Interest: combat The Abyss Watchers are a representation of PvP addicts. They have no powers other than tenacity; they perform the same combos repeatedly. When you are really gripped by a PvP binge in Souls, you often end up doing the same thing again and again. The fight takes place in a mausoleum, on top of many chambers filled with human remains. The fact that this boss fight is instructional about combat, specifically about looking for tells (a cloud of dust always signifies the end of their combos) might be another clue. There is no limit to how good you get at Souls PvP; every foe is an opportunity to improve timing and strategy. You can just keep stacking anonymous bodies under yourself.

Aldrich Poison: Greed Aldrich invokes the concept of supremacy many times: he is in the supreme area from Dark Souls 1; in the supreme boss room of that area; he wears as a crown the former supreme lord of that area. This is because he devours lords; he tries to take prestige upon himself through acquisition and incorporation—greed.

Type of Player: completionist | Interest: content Aldrich is a commentary on completionist players. He is someone who “plays the game to death”, acquiring every object, reaching every achievement, devouring the soul of the game through taking everything into himself. He becomes bloated by consuming as much of the game’s content as possible. The old God whose likeness he has adopted is Gwyndolin, who was, in narrative terms, the one pulling the strings in the land of the Gods. And in gameplay terms, he is a secret boss. So on both counts we have someone who is elusive, and exists more or less at the boundary of the gameworld. When a player tries to see every last little morsel of a game, they become somewhat like Gwyndolin, a manipulator of a virtual world. If you know too much about a game, you have the risk of being less immmersed.

Yhorm Posion: Delusion In Buddhism, the poison of delusion secretly underlies the other two poisons, as the impulse toward hatred and greed are ultimately born of some false view about reality. This is akin to how the profaned capital sits below the rest of the kingdoms. To beat Yhorm you essentially have to “play pretend” with him, picking up a fake super-weapon, or fighting alongside Siegward, a knight who appears to be somewhat deluded about the state of the world, enthralled in the same fantasy as Yhorm himself.

Type of Player: lore researcher | Interest: meaning The profaned capital is full of statues—fixed images of myth; and empty goblets—treasures with no utility. Not to mention the area with the swamp which is full of symbolic imagery, but serves no narrative or mechanical purpose. The entire profaned capital challenges us to make sense of it; it is the ultimate temptation of lorekeepers in DS3. It throws at us a disproportionate amount of reference to DS2, which is famous among Souls players as the least thematically sensible Souls game. The Greatshield of Glory is found right outside Yhorm’s room, in a conspicuous room full of treasure, and yet it is a very impractical shield and offers very little lore value. If a lore-minded player picks it up, it directs them to a legendary personage from the War of Giants, which raises far more questions than it answers. The same is true of much of this area—the Eleanora, the Monstrosities, the Profaned Flame itself—they are all there to get you to speculate. These are the players who come to Souls games again and again, trying to find the “ultimate meaning.” They seek the grail, claim to find it, and then chuck in a pile with the others.

Yhorm's story also imitates the primordial Artorias myth: forsaking his shield in preservation of something more valuable. Other than that Yhorm is largely a cipher when it comes to biography, with a void for a face, which itself epitomizes what must remain at the center of mythology and storytelling: mystery.

Sit Down and Seek Guidance So we have the three reasons that people become fixated on Souls: the combat, the achievements, and the mystery. But there is a fourth lord of cinder boss, who is conceptually apart from these three: the Lothric Twins. They represent yet another kind of person who must keep playing Dark Souls: the developers. Lothric is striving to produce “a worthy heir,” a proper sequel to Dark Souls 1. The Princes are bound to their chamber as the developers are bound to their project, as that is their curse—“but you may rest here too, if you like.” In this context we can see their duality as the dual nature of having to work on the game and also play it to death. The privilege and the loftiness of the promise of a great piece of art (Lothric), and also having to go back "into the trenches" of the work itself (Lorian). Notably, neither of them can walk, they just teleport around. They are stuck at work, trying to bring the new world into being. Also I can’t go this whole essay without mentioning the obvious: that the Ashen One is bringing Lords to their thrones, and we players and developers have to assume our little chairs and couches when we access this world.

Playing Beyond the Point of Pleasure Of course the most extreme example of someone stubbornly remaining in the world no matter what is Slave Knight Gael. He is looking for pigment, which seems to be a euphemism for the substance of humanity (the Dark Soul). He wants to give it to the painter, the world-creator, so that a new world can be made. He is willing to indulge in a wasteland of abject violence for as long as it takes in order to renew something. Ironic that he is probably only prolonging the current world in his obsessive drive to recycle it faster.

Let’s examine the relationship between the figure of the painter and her relationship to Gael. That she is a spiritual entity is obvious: we never see her touch the ground, she is always in an upper room and lifted on a piece of furniture. Among other things, she is a clear metaphor for life springing eternally. A creative child who continues to paint despite kidnapping and imprisonment. She is the heart of the painted world, itself a place that symbolizes the idea of the representation of reality.

I want to make sure this is clear, because it is a bit of a kaleidoscope to consider. Any subject in Dark Souls stands for many things, but something that the painted world specifically represents is the very concept of representation. So of course the places in our imaginations are painted worlds, but so is this physical world of appearance, the maya of mundane reality. Not to mention that a work of art is a painted world, and the game we’re discussing is a painted world. When a work of art is able to recreate itself in itself, we can see this funny effect of mirrors reflecting mirrors infinitely. This results in seemingly inexhaustible symbolic content—there is so much potential to find meaning and create connections. Because Moby Dick represents a work of literature; the Tempest represents a play; Twin Peaks represents a TV show, these works can offer extensive insights not only into their medium but into the nature of reality. In these and other examples, the representation of the medium within the work may or may not be a single subject, but since Dark Souls is formally a game about levels and level design, the painted world is the heart of its self-reflexivity. The painted world can be pointed to as the summary of this fractal device. And the personification of that device, its ambassador to the player, is the painter.

The miracle or divine child is also an archetype familiar to us from Lothric, in their struggle to produce the “worthy heir.” Reality seeks salvation through the appearance of grace. They want it in a clear, incontestable form—to be able to point at it and say, "thank goodness we went through all that, because look, now here is the meaning, here is that which validates all that came before." In the world of Dark Souls 3 the religion of the masses is the Lothric stuff; meanwhile knowledge of the painted world is much more obscure. Lothric’s religion is obviously regulated and hierarchical, while Gael’s devotion to the painter is highly personal and private: he carries around a scrap of painting; he prostrates to a hidden idol in a small chapel; he considers the painter his family. He is emotionally close to the object of his worship.

But whether it’s Lothric or Ariandel, they are anticipating the divine child to redeem the world. As an archetype, the child ultimately represents surprise. The possibility of being delighted by life in its creative novelty. The child as an archetype appears in our own behavior when we do something without any sort of contrivance or mental interference, doing something in the world which doesn’t seem to have come from who we conceive ourselves to be. This is miraculous. Such an action enchants the world, and there is no explaining it, even if it may weave all kinds of stories around itself, retroactively framing things that have led up to it as portents or promises. (Though not exclusive to him, this trait is well-known in characterizations of Christ, and DS3 is clearly indebted to Christian iconography, so do with that what you will). Regardless of the specific cultural invocation, the divine child is a personification of something that happens within the human spirit. TFW you are renewed by a fresh and spontaneous engagement with life.

The grace of the miraculous often comes to us through play. Play is more of an attitude than an activity; the feeling of play may come to us through making a painting, or chatting with a friend, or moving around in a video game. We can play video games idly, competitively, experimentally, creatively, studiously, whatever, the feeling of “play” can show up regardless. We can sit there playing a certain game from a certain motivation, and feel totally rote and joyless, and question, “Why am I doing this?” Or we might sit there and play the same game with the same motivation, feeling totally lit up by it, its purpose to us obvious and self-validating. We are not even questioning why we are doing it, we are enjoying life.

This is really the ground that the miraculous tends to land on. Grace, meaning, and an immanent love of life are more likely to show up when we are in flow and not exercising our capacity for self-assessment. But like everything in life, we mistake the images and objects around us for the feeling of grace. Any given object might only be the catalyst once; it’s not about the object. This is extremely easy to see in cases of acute nostalgia; adults chase enchantment through collecting Zelda memorabilia or going to Disneyland, in pursuit of what kindled their spirit as a child. It was never really the game or the character that was doing it, it was what they were able to access within themselves.

So anyway Gael has yet to realize this. He thinks the Dark Soul is out there in something else. That it will be yielded as a drop if he just kills the right enemy, or 10,000 enemies, or goes to the right place at the right time. You can see that this is something of a synthesis of all the other Buddhist defilements: there are elements of completionism/greed, violence/hatred, mysticism/delusion. There is even the suggestion of the developer of these games again, in that Gael is a “slave,” forced into participation in the world to assist some creative apotheosis. (Isn’t it funny that his weapon is a worn-down executioner’s sword?—whether the person coding or the person playing, we are all “executing” command after command). The thing that really keeps him on the wheel is something beyond any of the player types and their vices; it is almost some sort of pure, amoral automatism, a churning drive that on one side resembles wanton nihilism, and on another side single-minded piousness. Is one disguised as the other, or has Gael somehow stepped beyond this binary? Yet another dichotomy in Dark Souls that begs to be reconciled, but whose tension creates the opportunity to participate creatively in its expansive mythology. When things are held apart we can move between them.

To really understand Gael, we have to contend with the question of a person’s relationship to their own soul, since that relationship is so plainly suggested by Gael and the painter. (This question, by the way, is much elaborated in Elden Ring, with its repeated foregrounding of the image of the maiden or “consort”). If we were to see Gael and the painter as partitions within one person--whether she is his soul, or his inner life, or his better nature, whatever—then in any case Gael is the side which goes out into the world and experiences it. He is the creative extension into the world as its active participant and realizer. Yet he is clothed as the warrior, the executioner. While the one who is dressed as the artist, the painter, just stays in her room and imagines the world—but this is where the magic of creation is really felt. We involve ourselves in life, or in a game, but we are only really changed and renewed when that exterior experience is “brought home” into the inner life. We do something “in the game,” but the act of “painting,” in renewing the world through our creative interpretation, is a decidedly interior experience.

[shinybearnerd]

"Celestial Ties" - bonus

Part 1.

Part 2.

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

Here's the story bonus. Maybe later I'll update it to be longer and with some angst. Idk. For the moment, tho, enjoy. >:)

Pair: Aziraphale x Gn!reader Words: Genre: Smut +18, some fluff? Story: Some spicy time in the bookshop. ;)

-Engish is not my first language. So I'm sorry if there are any mistakes-

Aziraphale's heart swelled with love as he leaned in, their lips meeting. It was a kiss filled with years of longing, of pent-up emotions finally being released. Their lips moved together in perfect harmony, a dance of love and desire reigniting the flame that had never truly died. As they pulled away, breathless and shaken, Aziraphale cupped Y/n's face tenderly, his thumb wiping away their tears. They looked at each other, connecting their lips immediately after. Deepening it by the second.

Their lips collided in a fervent, desperate kiss. As if trying to make up for all the lost time and missed opportunities. The years of longing and heartache melted away in that moment, replaced by the intensity of their love and desire for each other.

Aziraphale's heart raced, and he felt himself floating on a cloud of euphoria. Y/n's hands found their way to Aziraphale's hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss even further.

Their bodies pressed against each other, feeling the warmth and familiarity of each other's presence. In that passionate embrace, Aziraphale and Y/n rediscovered each other, exploring each other's lips and savouring the taste that was uniquely their own.

The years apart seemed to vanish as they became lost in each other, their souls rekindling the connection that had never truly faded.

<< We should stop.>> said the angel. They were both catching their breaths while looking at each other. <<Yes… Arden could see us. >>

The angel was right. The human knew that. But after all these years without him…

Y/n leaned in again, softly kissing the angels while untying his bow tie while sitting on his lap. << Exactly. W-We should stop, shouldn't we?>> <<I mean, we are only kissing… at the moment >> They undid the first button of his shirt, starting to kiss and nib his neck. << G-Good heavens, darling…>> the angel moaned softly. Trying so hard to be heard. <<We should- >>

Y/n stopped kissing him to look at his eyes again. They only lasted a few seconds before Aziraphale took their head to resume the kiss. << I mean, sooner or later, he'll know how babies are made…>> Y/n smiled, throwing away their jam on the nearest chair. <<It's not like we didn't do something like this before… >> replied, biting his neck. Aziraphale blushed and chuckled at the memory. << They were my customers, my darling. Here we're talking about scarring our kid for life. <<Y/n, we really should stop. I can't bear the thought of our son witnessing something like this… >>

Y/n's lips brushed against his ear, sending shivers down his spine. << I understand.>> they whispered, their warm breath against his skin sending waves of pleasure through him. <<I'm worried too. I am! …But just this once, let's forget about everything else and be together. <<He's with Crowley, remember? >>

Aziraphale hesitated for a moment. His heart torn between his desires and his responsibilities. But as Y/n's lips found his once more, all rational thoughts were pushed aside, and he surrendered to the magnetic pull of their love.

Their kisses grew more fervent, their bodies moving in perfect harmony. Aziraphale's hands roamed Y/n's body, tracing the curves and contours that had haunted his dreams for years. His touch was both gentle and possessive, conveying his love and longing. Y/n's body responded eagerly, arching into his touch, craving more.

The atmosphere in the room was charged with both desire and nervous laughter. Their connection was undeniable, and the pull between them was magnetic.

As Y/n straddled his lap, their lips found each other again in a searing kiss, their bodies pressed together. Their hands exploring each other with a mix of familiarity and newfound longing.

The room started to be filled with the sound of their shared breaths, the soft murmur of affectionate whispers, and the undeniable passion that had drawn them back together.

Y/n's fingers gently tugged at Aziraphale's bow tie, untying it with practised ease, and then moved to the buttons of his shirt. Their touch was electrifying, leaving a trail of tingling sensations in their wake. Aziraphale's breath hitched, and he found himself losing control. Intoxicating desire pulsed through his veins.

Their kisses deepened, becoming more hungry as if trying to make up for all.

The heat between them intensified. Their bodies pressed together in a tangle of limbs and passion. Their breathing grew heavy and erratic, a symphony of desire mingling in the air. Aziraphale's fingers trailed along Y/n's spine, eliciting shivers of pleasure, while their hands roamed over his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.

Unable to contain himself any longer, Aziraphale guided Y/n to his desk. Gently laid them down while their lips never parted.

Slowly they unzipped each other pants and partially freed their torso, leaving kissing and bite sign along the way.

<<You ready?>> said Aziraphale. His voice sounding like a rumble.

Y/n looked at the angel. The way his (now) messy hair was shining against the bookshop light or stuck against his forehead. The way his lips were puffy and red for the kiss. Or how his eyes were looking at them with such love and desire. Not to mention his husky and caring voice… To them, all about this situation was so hot and romantic. So yes. They were definitely ready.

Their bodies melded together, fitting perfectly like two pieces of a puzzle. The human could hear Aziraphale murmur something like <<My stars, you're so tight… You feel so good, my love. >>

Their senses were magnified. Every touch sent shockwaves of pleasure through their bodies. The angel's hands explored Y/n's skin while their nails gently grazed his back, leaving a mark of their desire.

The room was filled with the symphony of their muffled moans and whispers, mingling with the sounds of their passionate embrace. Their bodies moved in perfect synchrony, their desires intertwining with the other.

<< I-I can't believe... you persuaded me to do something like this. Oh my...>> he panted, continuing with a gentle yet hard and steady pace. Y/n squeezed one of Aziraphale's shoulders as their other hand tried to cover up the pornographic sound escaping.

The angel knew that he should have said something about decreasing their volume. Or at least slow down. But their moans and huffs made him turn on even more. He picked one of their legs up and put it on his shoulder, slightly increasing his pace as he kissed them. Trying to cover up their moans.

<<You'll be the death of me...! >> panted between kisses. << You're the one... f-fucking me on a desk with our son in the next room. Fuck Zira... like that!>> They covered their mouth again as the angel pushes started to get harder and quickly. He always loved when they called him like that. Especially in times that this. <<And whose fault it is?… Fuck. >>

And that was the final straw for Y/n. Hearing Aziraphale cursing was the hottest thing that could happen during sex.

They immediately took his head and smashed their lips together. The angel moaned against the kiss, making Y/n do the same.

Soon after, they came both as close to each other as possible. Their breaths mixed together while their forehead touched.

Aziraphale parted a bit. Just to be able to look at their eyes. And, as he was fixing their hair away from their eyesight, he whispered: << I missed you so much… You have no idea…>>

[rawcalamity]

"Come hither my sweet children; 'tis time we abandon which hast set to lead us astray. Together with arms linked we embark unto the light, whither we shalt feel his warm embrace. May fear be laid to rest, as his sonorous voice engulfs all sound… Hear his song and allow it to bring solace to thy soul. No longer shalt we struggle, lest we remained tethered to man‘s odious… If thy art to harbor peace in oneself, thy must allow wend and embody thou‘s purest form… Come, he awaits patiently for our ascension. For far too long we hast averted our gaze away from our true nature, and now 'tis time to rekindle that which is suppressed. To feel enlightenment, thou shalt heed the call of the shepherd and regress. For he invites his children to become one with the herd…" It‘s said that an entity who speaks with a deceitful tongue shadows souls marching between the realms of the living and of the dead. Those who heed the call of the shepherd are lulled into his festering sea of wool, where what little remains of their humanity is worn away. To become one with the herd is to sacrifice yourself to the shepherd.

[propheticeve]

In the shadows of a brutal era in American history, where oppression and cruelty reigned, a powerful form of resistance took root: the Praise House. For enslaved black individuals in the Antebellum South, the Praise House stood as a sacred sanctuary, a place where they could defy the oppressive Christian views imposed upon them by their slave masters.

In a world where the power structures dictated every aspect of an enslaved person's existence, the Praise House emerged as a symbol of defiance and strength. It became a space where faith, culture, and the indomitable spirit of the African diaspora could thrive despite the dehumanizing conditions of slavery.

Meetings in the Praise House were not confined to the familiar rhythms of Sunday mornings. Instead, these gatherings typically took place on weeknights, a subtle act of rebellion in itself. The slave masters preferred their human property to attend white-dominated churches, where carefully curated sermons served as a reinforcement of the slave system, often using scripture as a tool of control.

Within the walls of the Praise House, the enslaved black community found solace in the absence of opulent Christian symbols and trappings. There, empty space was favored over altars, kneelers, pulpits, and even chairs and pews. This minimalism provided the space needed for the powerful and spiritually charged "ring shouts," an integral part of the all-night sessions of prayer and song. These gatherings were more than just expressions of faith; they were acts of resistance, defiance, and a testament to the resilience of the human spirit.

Even in the most degrading conditions, religious life and practice served as a source of strength and unity for the slave community. The Praise House became the focal point of their lives on the plantations, a place where their identity was preserved and their spirits were nurtured.

As time passed and the shackles of slavery fell away, the significance of Praise Houses remained unwavering. They continued to serve as the heart of the African community, a testament to the enduring strength of culture and faith.

Today, we at My Mind and Me Inc and the Temple of Living Word a 501c3 non profit based in Atlanta are on a mission to rekindle the traditions of the past and return to our Southern hoodoo roots. Our goal is to open our own Praise House in Atlanta, where hoodoos, practitioners of African Traditional Religions (ATRs), and individuals of all backgrounds can practice openly, without judgment. In this sacred space, we will offer open altars, prayer sessions, spaces for practitioners to teach, and, of course, the continuation of the cherished tradition of ring shouts.

To make this vision a reality, we need your support. Be a part of a bigger picture, a story of resistance and resilience. Donate today and help us build a Praise House that stands as a testament to the enduring strength of culture, faith, and unity. Together, we can create a space where souls find solace, healing, and renewal.

Join us on this sacred journey, and be a part of history.

Please SHARE! SHARE! SHARE!

Atlanta family TAP IN

@mymindandmeinc @realconjuhwoeman

[hlficlibrary]

HL Fic Library 🌚 Supernatural Fics

Remember to leave kudos and a comment on the fics you enjoyed to show your appreciation! You can find the library's other recs here.

🦇 domestic monsters (series) by @g-uttertrash {E, 234k}

Harry is a witch from a long line of power, an ancient line that’s one of the strongest left alive in their hemisphere. He can cast spells without a word if need be, fly on a broomstick, and has a black cat (a kitten, really) named Felix that is his animal familiar. He can shape galaxies in his cupped hands and can destroy them just as easily. He can choose exactly how to use his power, for encouragement and support, or for more nefarious causes if he wishes to.

And as fate would have it, he’s scared of haunted houses.

(Harry is a witch who carries around a stuffed pumpkin, Louis is a vampire with too much time on his hands, and their best mates Zayn & Niall aren't exactly what they seem...)

🦇 Collision by itjustkindahappened / @tequiladimples {E, 226k}

Mythology/Fairytale!AU in which Louis is a dainty fairy with a temper who wants to be intimidating and Harry hurts people. Naturally, they hate each other.

(Featuring Liam, the big and not-so-bad wolf who’s got a thing for humans, Zayn, a human with supernaturally good looks, and Niall, the cupid who just wants his job to be easier.)

🦇 Run Like the Devil by benzos / @churchrat {E, 139k}

Harry stops pouting, but his frown is still fixed in place. “Are you sure?” he asks. “You know it’s your soul you’re signing away.” He sounds…sad? No, that’s not right, but there’s something.

Christ. This is the most incompetent demon Louis’ ever met. If he hadn’t seen the red of his eyes he wouldn’t believe he was a demon at all. How’d he get this job if he isn’t trying to convince Louis to deal? Or is it just another trick? A ploy for sympathy?

“I’m sure,” Louis says. “Come over here and kiss me.”

Supernatural AU. Louis hunts demons; Harry's the strangest demon he's ever met, and he keeps fucking meeting him.

🦇 House of The Rising Sun by @itsmotivatingcara {M, 101k}

“It wasn’t me.” Louis said after they’d walked a block in silence, Harry glanced over in surprise but this time Louis didn’t meet his eyes, instead looking ahead. The moonlight cast shadows under his striking cheekbones, and not for the first time, Harry thought he was eerily beautiful - though immortality would likely have a hand in that. “It was supposed to be, but I got caught up in something else.”

“Something more important than murdering a witch” Harry snarked, “Will wonders never cease.”

He felt Louis’ irritation before he spoke again, “Careful, little lamb.” He murmured.

Little lamb.

Harry despised the nickname Louis had given him when they’d first met nine months prior. Little Lamb to the slaughter, Louis had said mockingly.

Or The Originals AU that no one asked for.

🦇 Black with Autumn Rain by whimsicule {T, 93k}

“Thank you,” Geoff says, taking a sip of his tea. “What did you tell him?”

Louis has a sip as well, lets the tea burn down his throat too quickly, too hot, and he feels it all the way down to his stomach. “The truth. Essentially,” he replies after a moment, licking his lips, relishing the slightly bitter taste of the brew that’s never quite strong enough for Louis’ liking. At least it’s not decaf. “That my dog scented it. That I didn’t touch the body. That I came here first thing.”

Geoff nods pensively. “Did he believe you?”

“Probably not. There’s only so many people who can drown on dry land before it gets fishy.”

or: Harry is a journalist, Louis has lots of secrets and the moors aren't exactly the ideal place to rekindle a lost romance.

🦇 The Devil In My Brain by @princesshalo {E, 74k}

“Jesus Christ!” Louis yells as he jumps back in reaction to Harry once again popping up out of nowhere.

Harry doesn’t even flinch.

“Quite the opposite.” He jokes, holding out one of the drinks for Louis to take. A freshly sizzling vodka Red Bull; his favorite.

Louis’s initial reaction is the thought you remembered.

His rational brain says, “No thanks.”

“Louis.” Harry says it like a concerned parent, the tone of it matching the way his mum used to say Boo Bear, you have to eat your vegetables to grow up big and strong, and that ignites something feral within him.

“Satan.” He counters, same tone coupled with a glare and a pair of arms crossed over his chest.

Louis used to be good friends with Harry, until he woke up alone and immortal with no one to blame but The Devil himself.

🦇 Tied to Fate by @littlelouishiccups {E, 52k}

After his estranged father’s death, Harry inherits a castle in England that has belonged to his family for generations and he knows nothing about. When he breaks up with his boyfriend, Harry decides England is the perfect place for a small vacation. He isn’t prepared to meet Louis Tomlinson, a ghost who once lived in the castle and has haunted it for over five hundred years. He’s even more unprepared to fall in love with him.

🦇 we should open up (before it's all too much) by @disgruntledkittenface {M, 43k}

“I’m not–” Harry breaks off, his voice strangled as he clutches his phone in his hand. He takes a breath and looks up, trying to keep the tears threatening to spill over at bay. “Louis, I’m not very good company these days. I–”

“Harry,” Louis interrupts, his raspy voice soft and soothing. “I get it. Sometimes it’s just easier to be alone, yeah?”

Harry nods, blinking back the last of his tears.

“But it can get lonely,” Louis states. Harry nods again even though it wasn’t a question, finally looking back at him. “So why don’t we try being alone, together?”

Struggling with grieving and depression since his dad died, Harry has never felt so alone. It’s too much to cope with on his own, but he feels like a burden when he tries to open up with people.

Then he meets Louis.

🦇 The Haunting of Louis Tomlinson by @helloamhere {T, 31k}

“I'm not afraid of ghosts,” Louis said.

Every single magnet unstuck itself from the fridge and fell to the floor in a clattering cascade.

“I'm only a little afraid of ghosts,” Louis said.

OR: Louis is a plucky Gothic Heroine, Harry is a Mournful Spirit, and Big Country Houses are full of mystery and suspense, as Big Country Houses ever are!

🦇 Where the World has Come Together by LadyLondonderry / @londonfoginacup {M, 26k}

For the crime of elven blood running through his veins, Louis Tomlinson spends his days protecting the human kingdom he’s been cast out of. Forcibly tied by magic to the very walls that encircle the city, he and the other guards do what they can to find some semblance of a life.

Then, against Louis’ wishes, someone new is added to their number. How is he supposed to share living quarters with a monster?

🦇 The Blood of Love by @mugglemirror {E, 25k}

Harry is a nurse and Louis is a painting worth more than a thousand words. As desire and darkness encompasses him, Harry has to learn the secrets of Thorne Hills manor before he succumbs to the mystery that surrounds him.

🦇 Campus Creatures by @kingsofeverything , YesIsAWorld / @louandhazaf {E, 25k}

It’s senior year for werewolf Louis Tomlinson and vampire Harry Styles, and as presidents of their respective fraternities, they’re determined to do it right.

Though what that means is anybody’s guess.

🦇 In the Strangest of Ways by SunTomato / @sun-tomato {NR, 17k}

Louis Tomlinson is a historian with English Heritage, specialised local history and folklore. When he is hired to research the origins of a mysterious music sheet, he soon finds he’s not the only one at the manor; a dark presence keeps following him around. The more time he spends at the historic site, the clearer it becomes that something tragic happened here. And when the haunting sounds of a melancholy piano piece accompanied by the vague shadow of a beautiful male figure appear, Louis is determined to find out who this beautiful man was and what happened to him…

🦇 it's time to find your wings again by we_are_the_same / @so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed {T, 12k}

The first reports are dismissed, as tall tales or folklore. As mental illness, poor Bathilda, she’d gone loopy. As people simply getting scared in the dark woods and seeing things, making things up. Magic isn’t real. Mythological creatures aren't real.

But then the first one is caught. A faun, that little Meg from around the corner swears has attacked her in the woods, and everyone comes to the marketplace to see the faun be hanged for its crimes. Louis doesn’t want to go, but at the same time, he finds himself unable to stay away. Not when this proves what he’s wanted to believe all along, that magic is real.

Louis is twenty when he starts working at the prison. His fascination for supernatural creatures had turned into something most closely resembling loathing over the years, due to the many stories of their evildoing, and although he still doesn’t believe in hanging them for their crimes, he does believe in keeping the town safe. In making sure that his siblings get to grow up without fear of being kidnapped or hurt. As the oldest son, it feels like his duty to make sure that no creature in the wide area will ever pose a threat to anyone.

🦇 Far Afield by QuickedWeen / @becomeawendybird {T, 11k}

Harry Styles is a witch who owns the best flower shop in Manchester. Lottie Tomlinson is planning her wedding, and brings her brother along to her first appointment. Both men have been having a bad day and sparks fly.

🦇 Just Your Jinx by @larryatendoftheday {T, 10k}

Harry Styles may or may not have accidentally jinxed his extremely fit new neighbor, and it's not so easy to make things right.

🦇 Babe, There's Something Lonesome About You by patdkitten / @babyarcanacasey {M, 8k}

Louis is a hedge witch, who lives a lonely, solitary life. He's quite happy with his shop in Door County, selling New Age magics to the tourists. He also has his cats and his birds to keep him company. But his best friend Liam thinks he needs someone around, and he's got just the person: Liam's friend Harry is coming to the area for the tourist season and since Louis has all this space....

🦇 Somethin' Old and Red by nonsensedarling / @absoloutenonsense {NR, 5k}

There was a ritual with these things. He’d pour a splash into a wine glass —his favourite little joke was telling humans he loved a nice glass of red every now and again— then sat down in his living room and listened to music while he drank. Every time he changed the record —or, what was it they called them nowadays? 8tracks? MP3s? Playlists? It was difficult for Harry to keep up with the technology, especially as much as things had changed over the last few decades— he would change the music before refilling the glass. He liked to savour his meals. He could get at least two evenings out of a bag that way, which worked very well for Harry’s schedule. His wine glass was in front of him on the counter, and he was ready to pour.

🦇 The Hidden Hills Restaurant by amomentoflove / @daggerandrose {E, 4k}

“Are you sure you want to hear about this? Wouldn’t you rather hear about what I’ll do to you? How often? How long? How many fin—“

“I like to get to know my potential clients before agreeing to anything,” Louis says and lays down the menu. He’s thinking of steak. Something meaty, juicy, and hearty.

Harry’s arched eyebrow at the word ‘potential’ doesn’t escape Louis’ notice.

or the one where Louis is a personal feeder and Harry is the vampire to be his next client

🦇 Rapture by @allwaswell16 {E, 3k}

It was New Year's Eve in Victorian London, and a lonely vampire could no longer resist the stunning lamplighter he watched night after night.

Or, a vampire Harry fic because what says the holidays like Victorian vampires?

🦇 Just a little taste by @lunarheslwt {G, 3k}

“Little dove,” Louis crooned, making Harry shiver a little, affected, “you’re shaking. Do you want to bite?” Harry stilled. He knew what Louis was asking. He knew Louis probably could sense how in dire need of comfort he was. He knew Louis was offering. And yet- “No,” he whispered, even as he felt the strong urge to let his lips trace the well-known path to the spot he usually bit into, “I could hurt you.” “Harry, my darling, you haven’t hurt me once in the numerous times you’ve needed to bite. Today will be no different. You know it’ll do you good.” Harry sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, torn. In the end, it was an offer he was too weak to resist. “So…do you want to? Little taste?” “Yeah,” Harry rasped out, “please.”

Or, Harry is a vampire that comes home one night, grappling with the darkness that comes with being one. Louis offers him unwavering love, acceptance and the one thing he needs but is reluctant to ask for; permission to bite for the sake of comfort and safety seeking.

[entropius-weirdo]

The newest episode has impacted me so much that I'm actually creating a world based on demonology and some biblical stories. Giving my own spin on it is therapeutic and helps me with my religious trauma. The show's Mammon is so shaped - I love Vivzi's spin on the sins even if it's not something I would personally design. I gotta thank Mammon for my rekindled love for demons. Now here's my rambling about personal worldbuilding:

Souls: I like to see hell less as a place for the damned, and more as a dumping ground for unwanted humans - which is useful to demon lords and Sins since human souls are very valuable. Think of it as revitalizing medicine - without heavenly light, an ex-angel grows ill, but souls work as a replacement. They're actually taxed, a demon lord has to give part of the souls he collects (usually through demonic contracts) to the Sin(s) running the ring. The souls themselves tend to be transported in "lanterns" as seen above. Lucifer: I interpret him as this elegant rotting creature - he looks like he's made of porcelain, but nowadays cracks are starting to form, and the light he emanates is dimming. Belphegor: I'm actually going for The Lanterne of Light's classification (not that I'm going to follow it sin for sin), making him the representation of Gluttony. To me he's this lover of costumed parties (think mardi gras or the Venitians masquerades) - I was inspired by Bacchus, pigs, goats and wolves (notoriously hungry creatures) - but also the barking deer. This jolly Belphegor you see here is a far cry from what he will later become.

[whumpshaped]

prev

tw religious whump, aftermath of trauma, forced recovery, dubious whumper turned caretaker

Whumper pulled back after a few seconds, letting out a quiet sigh. The human, as expected, looked absolutely pitiful and broken. Unfortunately, centuries of seeking revenge and punishing the insolent had killed every ounce of pride or enjoyment they'd used to derive from it.

They watched as the sentience slowly returned to the human, for better or for worse, and they quickly curled up into a trembling ball of confusion and anguish. The same sight, the same sounds, the same reaction... Whumper found no pleasure in it anymore. It was boring, it was more of an obligation they'd placed upon themself than anything else.

They felt a pang of... something, deep within their soul. It wasn't guilt. Was it? No, it was something different. They didn't feel anything just staring down at the broken human, but...

No, they shouldn't have been thinking about these things. It was truly odd for a god to be thinking such thoughts. Undesirable.

But they couldn't deny that those thoughts rekindled a fire inside of them. A fire of long lost excitement. It would've been something new, something different...

Why should they deny themself the thrill?

"Get up, mortal."

The human didn't move. They even covered their ears, like some petulant child who refused to listen. It was very clear now; their desire to correct was much greated than their desire to destroy completely.

"Get up," they repeated, this time pushing the command directly into the human's thoughts. It only got them a pathetic whimper. "You have sinned against me and I have punished you for it. I am offering you a chance to start over. To lead a life of devotion and worship instead of ridiculous stunts."

"Stop tormenting me," they begged desperately. "Leave me! Please! Go to your followers, they're way more deserving of your attention, just– just leave me alone..."

Whumper slowly lowered themself to the ground next to the human, finding themself infinitely captivated by this display of useless defiance. Clearly, the human was simply afraid, and for good reason. But refusing divine help after an encounter like this was as good as suicide. They needed help.

"You don't have a choice," they said simply. "I know the consequences of my punishments very well, yet I have never once brought a mortal back from the brink of devastating madness. I wish to do that now. And I will, no matter your opinion on the matter."

Taking away the illusion of choice seemed to work. The human looked up at them with tear-filled eyes, still shaking in fear. "M-more punishments..?"

"Certainly, if you continue to hinder my plans. But not if you stay obedient, no." They paused, letting the words sink in before repeating their order. "Get up, now. I will give you a life fuller than the one you've lost."

~

general drabbles taglist: @ashh-ed @whumpsday @whump-queen @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @rosewriteswhump @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night

[rui-nova]

Tragedy at an Impasse: The Terror, Hope, and Loss

Or a series of digressions about the story's themes of hope and some of its manifestations.

Once upon a time, a Greek chorus would sing upon a spectacle, and before then, and ever after, tragedy would fascinate us, because it would call to our familiars, because we, too, live with regrets, on a stage with little control over our fate, where we are nonetheless festering hope, a speck of something unattainable, a longing for what we may have once dreamt as familiar, as safe, as right.

There is no chorus in The Terror, its music is haunting, quiet, and acute. Like a good tragedy, its beginning already spells its doomed end, but its theme is silence. How then, should one replace the chorus, how can one call for fear and mercy, which muse should sing for them, rotten as they are, lonesome as some vowed to be? Its characters are left bare, but few of the self can be recognised through their exposed thinning flesh and frail whimpering. They are no geodes, expecting to be broken, to reveal a truth only their God would lay claim upon 一they’re Heraclitus’ paradigm of the shifting river, Theseus’ ship, and they are gone. Dead, and gone.

They are a graveyard of hope, with no bones to be buried. It begets grief and resistance, in their path laden with loss and futileness. The Terror is a tale of hubris and loss, of unfairness upon silence, of humanity bereft of it. Hope, too, is bereft of itself —but it does not die until they all do.

I. Devotion

On occasion, the characters pour hope into their devotion. After all, the men of Erebus and Terror cling mostly to the way of the lands they leave behind.

Far from the waylay ships and their forsaken fates, they hang on to the faith of their merciful God, whose scripture should stand above all laws of men. Here? There is no place for the divine. Not for them. The land, they soon see as godless, as it is put under prejudice, as they try to conquer that which is not theirs; soon it is godless, as human law and debauchery attack it, and thus God cannot love them. Their faith, and thus their hope, cannot reach him, if he is there.

Forsaken, what is God to them? He who loves them not, and in whose stead Fitzjames raises Sir John first, then Crozier?

Like Irving, the men who know the gospel in their hearts doubt and suffer, but they find contentment in that divine law, in its order. That God would not grant them ghosts. There is no more content soul than that of the most pious devout, and that of those who deny religion and gladly accept it in their heart. To Irving, faith was enough, as he upheld 'propriety' at the ships. It was enough, as he trudged atop the ice and the steppes. It bloomed, when hope was granted by chance, as a meeting with the Netsilik, as the goodwill of humanity was rekindled before his eyes. Freezing, devoted, doggish Saint Bernard that he was, it is still known: tragedy fancies not a mercy to devotion, to faith.

God-fearing Franklin and David Young cling to faith, when they feel their passing near.  Perhaps, convinced by Goodsir, Young would fashion himself a more fortunate Icarus, even when his wings he did not will himself; why would he not wish to be anything other than a canary in a coal mine, after all? Perhaps, Sir John fashioned himself a Robinson Crusoe, that God would say to them that “As I was with Moses, so I will be with you; I will never leave you nor forsake you” (Joshua 1:5). Perhaps, but God is not there for them.

Even then, when Goodsir claims it does not matter if God is with them, it matters to some, it matters to Hodgson, and Fitzjames, who gnaw onto its hope and meaning for salvation, for legitimation. Hodgson equates the Holy Communion to human consumption, he incarnates the horror that Dante appealed to with Count Ugolino and his purposely ambiguous verses, and he hopes, or rather wishes he hoped, that this faith will preserve his humanity, as the body of Christ preserves life, because he is hungry, and he wants to live. Fitzjames, in its stead, plays his subtle counterpart, he plays Ugolino’s sons, he pleads to give back to those who believed his performance more than he did, and he cries, to Crozier, who ‘loves the men more than God does’, “Father, much less pain ’twill give us / If thou do eat of us; thyself didst clothe us / With this poor flesh, and do thou strip it off. / Then hunger did what sorrow could not do” (Canto XXXIII, Inferno). Indeed, he is not Christ, but his body he will offer.

Hope, thus, is named faith, in the name of Christ, the son of the absent God, ripped apart like a Dionysos by men hungry for his love, when hunger did what sorrow could not.

II. Consumption

Could we say, then, that hope is consumption, in the human need of possession, the desire of life?

The crews find little wonder in this place. They wonder only of below, of forward, by Franklin's ghost. Life can bloom, one can find beauty in Nunavut, Goodsir learns, and Silna mourns, but the other sentenced men see only a barren land. The hollow land, for hollow men. 

Hope turns some to forbidden consumption, to harvest corpses for the life that does not bloom in them, and it is both the epitome of Arendt’s banality of evil, that “wholly unexceptional complacency” (Eichmann in Jerusalem) that waltzes into horror, and an act of fear and unrequited understanding, unrequited love.

It is said that “incorporating what you love is a sure way of seeing that it never escapes from you” (Crain, 1994). It is no wonder that he who has nothing would want to consume everything.

Rat, vulture, prophet, devil, monster, chosen, no one, ‘Hickey’ 一neither of which he is. Few understand hope as Hickey does. Hope is whatever one makes of a bad situation. Hope is survival, and “survival is a nasty piece of business. But we do what we have to do.” There is no troubled complaisance, because this force of life, this meaning, is owed to the possession of something, anything; it is feeding from the possibility of having a place and a meaning in the great scheme of it all. 

This curse may leave them loveless, may leave them unconsumed by the recognition of the other through their ever-decaying humanity, but Hickey opens the door to hope through consumption. No more would they be shown “fear in a handful of dust” (The Wasteland: The Burial of the Dead, TS Eliot), but rather, a new life from it: a utilitarian Noah's ark of mutineers. Or the attempt of it.

Because Hickey scraps from meat and its ornaments, he dresses in that which the world knows he is not, in the boots of a man who must stand to the view of all or believe himself no one at all, in the coat of a subservient man who forced him to expose himself for the 'godly' concern of ‘dirtiness’ —but Hickey is no Dr. Jekyll. He is both sinner and sufferer, but cannot conjure a Mr. Hyde. He cannot become someone else, someone born with different circumstances, someone beyond tragedy.

But hopeful, of his powerful change of fortune, he must have felt. Hopeful that the intimacy of anthropophagy and lust —and perhaps even love— would fill him as they should, that he would be seen and loved by a place through which he only works if it is to mingle with the dead… but this place, this barren, hollow, wasted land that they have made, cannot love them back. It cannot love Hickey back, no matter how much he hopes so.

III. Legitimacy

Hope is born out of recognition, a yearning that could not be wholly unreal, that there may be no certainty, but still a possibility of that desire, and a strength to see it through. As such, hope calls for an act of mercy, in repentance and debt, a hope for meaning and order; hope longs for foresight, as it guides the defeatist soothsayers to silent survival.

Mercy demands a hierarchy, a higher power and a higher moral, and what claim do these downtrodden souls have on such exercise? What right have they, to instil upon their lot the pretence of order they left back on their homes? What legitimacy have they to cry for Lazarus, his grave either sealed or in the making?

If hope is survival, if hope is in the rightness of humanity, and the purity of the flesh, it gives, that the physicians would dare all they did, a vow to knowledge, a vow to wellness ーthe burden of mercy. It is telling, then, that Stanley and Goodsir’s sentence is set from their very own sickened flesh, when their soul can no longer be contained, when it cannot bear to heal what is thought lost. Song is lost, through Morfin, and so is fellowship, through Collins, and truly, what remains of man by then?

Soon, they will be husks, there is no other end to life and their sentences. Three roads stand before them: they may seize all banal struggle, end it here before hope eats itself; they may push forward, wait for someone to take up the torch while they impossibly keep its fire alive; they may also cut expenses, maximise the chances of the fortunate few. Le Vesconte chooses the latter, to Little's dismay, but truly, nothing is fair where they are. The ill shall die alone, but they, too, already are "dead and gone", and damn it all ーthey still hope to live.

Theirs is an act of love, a hope that their mercy might make it right, but, ultimately, they are no God, and they cannot command the choice of their men. They cannot play Abraham nor the shepherds, because they are Cain, indeed, their brethren’s keepers, and the death they plan is also the death they hope to inflict upon the lead and the fear that is slowly sentencing them.

This is a truth that they know all too well, but few more than Silna and Crozier do, soothsayers, voice in the wilderness, shamans that they are. They have the certainty, and they suffer the curse of Tiresias and Cassandra, of an Orpheus who shall see his darlings leave when he remains, and whose cries shall be for naught but a sad song with no words. 

And Crozier shall drown in the alcohol and the visions of a David who will be thrown to the lion's den and survive it, yet he will long for that spiteful hierarchy of patronising mercy, in the mistrust born from others’ devaluation of him —but Silna shall be a symbol of the suffering that colonial enterprises inflict upon the innocent. She shall bite that “We were never meant to survive” (A Litany for Survival, Audre Lorde), but why would they not leave, why would they not let her bury her father, force her to play Antigone? Why are they tying her down with them, making her Lady Silence? And, to Crozier, “Why do you want to die?” Why— why would he kill hope, why would they make her home a boneyard?

And, far removed from who they were, exiled from their homes, both shall inflict a silence upon their legacy, and enact the aftermath of that hope. 

IV. Hope

What value does hope have, if this is an inked and parched tragedy? What goodness is it, when loss is assured, faith is unheard, consumption fills no well, and mercy is not merciful at all?

Most died, and there were innocents back in the graveyards they left behind, as there were innocents in Sodom and Gomorra. Faith and trust are gone, and so is warmth, while love is frail. Hope is at odds with itself, it is both a noble promise and a delusion, and it is the trembling gun that points not to the narrative’s back, but to its chest, cold, heavy, knowing, undoing. That particular gun should fire, it would be right, but a certain lieutenant wavers, does not pull the trigger, because he hoped— He hoped it did not have to be like this.

A question is thrown to the skies, from sore, tender hearts: “Why?”

The veterans remember well, ‘why’. Before their minds were touched by darkness, “it wasn't sickness or hunger that mattered most to our chances.” Instead, as Mr. Blanky relates, “what little love we had amongst us was the only thing keeping us civil”, and Blanky speaks not only of the story of Fury Beach, but also of their very fates.

If hope is to be the compulsion to bite the hand that feeds, to split its head open with a boat axe —if hope is to be a stronger faith in the others, or the self, than on living on, then so be it.

To hope against hope, in the face of silence, of loss, is worthwhile, and it is allowed, Blanky proves, as he discovers both the Passage and Tuunbaq by his own, lonely path. Then, hope needn’t be of survival, it needn’t be of a cleansed state of naïve, optimistic utopia. Ephemeral as life is granted to humanity, I’d dare say we are allowed this, to hope not only in spite —but because of death.

Because of death, the Netsilik family that feeds Irving matters —because of it, the efforts Lady Jane pursues back in England matter —because of it, Collins, Hartnell, and Tozer’s care for their fellows matters so, even as it leads them straight to their death.

Because hope is restless, and it cares little for tragedy when tragedy cares so much for it, it lives on, and it instils upon the bystander the chance of that bittersweet, wonderful catharsis.

Hope punishes Jopson, due to a frenzied servitude and loyalty that is paid in the botulism-induced disbelief of abandonment, but it pushes him forward, too, closer to the open than to the living dead the tents guard; hope chokes Little through angry chains and a last command, it reduces him to puppetry, but it pushes him to a subtle integrity few are allowed, and something must remain at the very end, to ask ‘Close?’, and thus hope for an answer, if it mattered, in the end; hope tells Bridgens love is what life is worth being alive for, and he’ll want for nothing else when Peglar’s gone, but he guards the pocket-book to his waist, he keeps his lover's words close, closer than his own, and he hopes not to die an empty book.

Crozier speaks without a waver, through words that haunt The Terror till its very end. That “‘close’ is nothing. It’s worse than nothing. It’s worse than anything in the world.” This is a tragedy, there is no happy ending. But ‘close’ does have a meaning. ‘Close’ means ‘hope’, and hope is the remnant in Pandora's jar, to which they were so close. Hope is what made them, once upon a time, alive, and hope is why it hurts.

If you reached the end, this is an invitation to talk about the hyperfixation together 🤝

[betasuppe]

It occurred to me just yesterday that I still only have a sad ending with Flint & Rinzler & still haven't conceived of how they could have a happily ever after.

A lot of it came from how most people want Rinzler to revert fully back to Tron post-Legacy & like, that's fine and all, but because Rinz has always been my fave guy, I got all sore at it & decided to say FUCK IT, WE ALL HAVE A BAD TIME HERE THEN!!

[long exhausted ramble... otherwise Flint's life sucks, nothing new here lol. feel free to ignore]

Anyways, the not very happy ending I've had in place for ages is that, just like how Tron helped Flint escape the Grid before Clu took over.... in the very last seconds of the human world before rolling over into the new millenia, Rinzler holds up the Grid from caving in as Flint is eked out just before y2k drops & the Grid undergoes a hard reset.

Anyways. When Flint finally leaps back the next day into the digital fantasy world to find even the smallest trace of Rinzler & yo ensure everything is ok & that the Grid survived smashing into the year 2000... Flint quickly runs into Clu & Tron & quite a few other familiar faces who are all in cheery good moods, happy to celebrate the new user year & see Flint too but... no one has any memory whatsoever of anything that took place from far before Clu's regime ever took over, all looking at the user all wild-eyed & in a panic with definite concern.

Considering Flint had started to feel like this world was the closest to home he'd ever known, & now not a single part of the adventure he'd been on, the bonds he'd formed & the times he'd shared were remembered by a single other soul... it's like the rug was completely yanked out from under his feet & Flint finds himself in some unknown Twlight Zone-esque version of the Grid that he had once called home... basically standing around strangers with familiar faces.

So like. Flint tries to spur on some memories with Tron, with no success of recalling anything of his time as Rinzler, & Flint has to come to grips with the fact that YEAH, he really did lose Tron once & now Rinzler too &... it hurts too much to realize that the Tron Flint's left standing in front of is neither parts of the program he'd loved. As is, they're just pals at this point again & Flint feels like he can't run the risk of going through this all once more, just to lose Tron again.

So Flint quickly wraps up everything by wishing his fellow programs a happy new year before dipping out... & a bunch of Flint's digital pals all wondering worriedly if the user is alright, but like that's it.

Flint goes back to the real world & hopes to find some archived Rinzler data hidden elsewhere, but the y2k bs messed everything up & kinda. It's just done. Flint leaves the programming & computer based world behind. He becomes a photographer since he'd always been interested in environmental storytelling & then like. Otherwise he feels the need to make sure he has full proof of what he's seen & done after feeling like years of his life were dumped down the drains in the Grid 😬

Anyways, I feel like it'd be easy enough to have Flint wind up with one of Rinzler's identity discs before he escapes the Grid during it's y2k refresh, but would it even work to restore memories on Tron? Would it even sort of be the same? I feel like that's a jerk move, letting a messed up copy of Rinz parasite onto this poor unsuspecting Tron & it's just. Pretty sucky.

Would Flint just hold onto it as the last memory of the greatest bond he ever had in his life?? Hard to say.

If nothing else, may need to rethink the full ending? Maybe it's possible Rinzler gets dragged out with Flint before the y2k restart? But otherwise, Flint having all the memories & no one to share them with... he could try to rekindle things with Tron from the start button that point, there's no guarantee anything would even happen, I guess. I dunno.

Either way, the only version of Flint & Tron/Rinzler that actually has a happy ending is with evil Flint & Rinz, since they get digitally bonded for life & lock themselves up in the Grid forever & live happily for eternity in their little digital paradise bit otherwise like.

Most every version of Flint & Rinz but one does not end on a happy note... usually with Flint lying face down on his bed, praying to disintegrate & stop existing & all because he gave his whole heart to the same guy TWICE & ruined his life BOTH times & feels like he himself is the one who's ruined Tron/Rinzler's life. It's confusing & awful & dreadful, but. There it is.

Sorry about that, buddy...

[In which Flint ends up sad & alone because he's too tired to give his heart to anyone else after losing his first loves... & at least Flynn gets out of the Grid way earlier than 2010 but still, all sorts of things suck here... I'd like if somehow rinzler could remember but hOWWW]