#BUT I believe in the power of collective will and a little bit of manifestation pixie dust

[sinna-rou]

@ all of y’all in the tags going “it’ll never air”, “we’ll be immortal before we get immortality”, “yeah we’ll never see it”

First of all I would like to say that this prompted a deep dive into the mechanics of media censorship in modern day China and now I’m very angry on many different levels and second of all I would like to say

DENIAL IS A RIVER IN EGYPT and I WILL SEE THIS AIRED BEFORE I DIE

thank you for your time 🤡

okay but WHO WAS GONNA TELL ME that luO YUNXI!!!! is cast as ChU WanNINg? I BEG YOUR FINEST PARDON?

someone’s gonna need to wipe me off the floor if Immortality ever airs because i am not ready

so you’re telling me that this

is the man gonna be playing THE pathetic wet cat, the “no one could ever possibly love me”

the stoic, the graceful yuheng elder

the desperately repressed

The White Cat, Chu Wanning????

i’m done. deceased. wake me up when it’s out

image credits: gifs 1&2 @xiaosean - 3&4 @kimp05 - 5 @trendingdrama - 6 @yilinglaozu - image 7 @inthefaceofadaffodil (also OP of the inciting post mentioned in the tags) - 8 official image

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹。look my way, you’re what i crave | gojo satoru

wc: 2.6k

summary: you and gojo made a promise to yuuji.

contains: f!reader in mind but no pronouns used, food trip/taste-testing, many food descriptions, a little bit of (playful) jealousy, pouty gojo, yuuji calls reader sensei, established relationship (but no label).

a/n: a small extra scene that takes place some time between col 2.5 and col 3! not a food expert nor am i japanese, so food descriptions are just based off first-hand experience and some research i’ve managed to do! there are some switches in povs (gojo-reader-gojo) but i tried to keep it as distinct as possible! this is also my birthday gift for you, niku @stellamancer!! thank you for sharing this idea with me and for loving the col couple as much as i do!!

collection masterlist: conversations on love 2.5. and my body keeps saying (it's yours) <- you are here -> 03. so this is what it means to be in love + (extended scene) too good to be mine

‘Losing’ isn’t a word in Gojo’s vocabulary. 

If it is, it’s usually addressed to the other party. 

He’s been a winner ever since he was born, two blue eyes and an extra four hidden, holding power that manifests itself only once every few centuries. Some argue that he was born for that reason: to win, without doubt, incontestably. 

And he supposes, most of it is true—which is why he can’t believe the loss he’s feeling right now, standing in front of the Daifuku stall across from you. 

Never in his entire life did Gojo ever anticipate himself losing to anything. But with the way you’d casually nodded off, signaled so nonchalantly that you’d follow him but clearly didn’t—it has his head turning, finding you midbite a singular, shared stick of Yakitori.

He thinks he might have just experienced his first loss. 

And the victor is none other than Itadori Yuuji. 

.

You made a promise to Yuuji. 

Back when he was still up for execution by virtue of being Sukuna’s vessel, you’d laid your confidence in Gojo. 

“Sensei, do you really think it’s possible?” he asks, voice hesitant but eyes tinged with hope. You were discussing the ways his execution could go down—if it even will go down. 

Shoko’s always pointed out that the most dangerous thing about you is hope, and how you hold onto it so deeply that you pass it onto others like a disease, spreading it to seep into skin and bones.

Gojo calls it your hidden technique, the trump card you pull out when everyone’s knocked down, spirits low. It’s what sets you apart, he thinks, how you’re able to survive in a world that serves as an antithesis to the values you hold. 

“If Satoru said to leave it up to him, he’ll find a way,” you answer immediately, like you’ve known it all this time, experienced it first-hand—a memory. Then you add, an affirmation that sounds so close to fact, it reassures him, “he always does.” 

“Let’s go to Osaka and eat all the street food when everything’s done.”  

You made a promise to Yuuji, and here you are now, with Gojo, keeping it. 

The streets of Osaka are bustling, crowded pretty much any time of the year—carts of all sorts of street food lined up with restaurants hidden in every corner. Neon banners and LED signs light up overhead, a twinkling food heaven reflected in Yuuji’s eyes. 

It must be his first time here, you surmise, because he’s looking at every food stall like he’s ready to devour. You glance at Gojo, hands tucked in his pockets with his blindfold sitting snugly on his face. His presence is bright, blending in with the light, and he turns his head to you slightly, flashing you a small smile. 

You tell yourself the warmth you feel is because of the heat radiating from all the vendors’ stoves. 

“Sensei, what do you want to try first?” Yuuji interrupts your train of thought, but you’re sure he doesn’t mean to. He’s just excited, and his energy has always been infectious, spreading to both Gojo and you. 

Gojo isn’t too big a fan of savory things, so you know you’re going to end up having to choose. You take a look around you to survey each stall, before turning back to Yuuji with a plan on how exactly you’re going to eat and conquer. 

.

Gojo watches—the way you zig-zag across the street, following Yuuji as he walks up to each vendor. It’s both amusing and endearing seeing you being just as, if not more, enthralled at all the savory options in front of you. 

Between the two of you, he’s always had the sweet tooth, so it tickles something in him that even when you don’t, your food-tasting game plan still consists of alternating savory-sweet-savory food.

Yuuji’s first pick is of course, Okonomiyaki, an iconic must-have in Osaka. He orders one piece at first, but you insist on two, knowing that the boy is more than capable of finishing a single one on his own. On the frying sheet lie columns of the pancakes–a simple mixture of flour, eggs, and cabbage–fried and coated in flavors bursting of sweet, savory, and smoky. The lady vendor is generous with the toppings and sauce she pours over it, packing the two pancakes in separate plastic containers before handing one to you and the other to Yuuji.

You turn back to find Gojo a few steps behind you, so you beckon him closer.

“Let’s share,” you whisper, once he sidles up next to you. The plastic crinkles in your hand as you try to slice a piece, Yuuji’s muffled ‘whoah’ heard from the side. 

You blow on the slice, lips shaped into a small ‘o’; he doesn’t want to stare, not with Yuuji right there and neither of you having made anything official yet—

—but this is really tempting him to kiss you. 

He doesn’t know if you can tell—any hint of his desire concealed by his blindfold, but you shove the slice right to his lips. And while it isn’t graceful at all, with the sauce probably smeared all over his mouth, it’s a good distraction from how much he wants you instead of the food right now. 

The texture of the Okonomiyaki hits right every time, the crunchy and creamy combination providing a great contrast that complements how sweet and savory it is. The bite you take after his has your expression mirroring Yuuji’s, and he takes out his phone to capture this memory.

“Gowo-shunsheh! Tek a shulfeh!” Yuuji shouts, mouth still full as he lifts his fingers up into a peace sign. You grin, ear-to-ear, evidence of your happy tummy; he wants to pinch your cheeks. 

“Okay, copy!” he raises his phone up at an angle, fingers hovering over the volume button as he grips the edges, “ready! 1…2…3… say Okonomiyaki!” 

Only Yuuji shouts it, and when Gojo reviews the photo, you’re halfway through a fallen smile—face contorting into disbelief that he said something that cringey, in typical, loud, Gojo fashion too.

“Hey!” he points out, zooming into your face in the photo, “Again! You’re not smiling!” 

You shoot him a look. 

“We can try it with a .5 this time, the kids love it these days.” he suggests, flipping the phone and gathering you and Yuuji closer. 

He takes two photos: one with flash and one without, and the moment he counts down, you mumble right by his ear to please not say ‘Okonomiyaki’ when you have to smile—he chuckles. 

And he says it again. Both times. 

You expected no less, but at least you tried. 

“You should be our human tripod next time,” you tell him, letting Yuuji go ahead. 

The photos look good, with you tiptoeing as you balance a hand on Gojo’s shoulder, Yuuji at the back with his hands raised, holding the empty plastic that used to house his Okonomiyaki.

“Knew you were just using me,” he pouts, hand reaching behind to rest at your lower back. 

It’s been the subtleties with him this trip, tonight especially. 

“Yep,” you play along, smiling oh-so-sweetly, “I knew those freakishly long arms were good for something.” 

Before he can retort with something cheesy, along the lines of: ‘to hold you’ or ‘to hug you in your sleep’, you move away, catching up to Yuuji. 

Your pick, for Gojo, is Taiyaki. It’s not his favorite thing to eat, but it’s sweet, and is still a good, nostalgic dessert, you’d like to think. Batter is poured all over the fish molds before being filled with the red bean filling. Then, after a few minutes of waiting, it pops out perfectly, ready to be eaten by the three of you. You ask for two again, only because this time, you know Gojo can finish one whole. 

But when his eyes land on the Taiyaki you’re biting from and he realizes very quickly that it isn’t his, he feels a pinch. 

It's a good thing the crunchy outside and soft, full inside of the Taiyaki is enough to make him shrug off the feeling. For now.

As the food trip goes on, you end up in many more stalls—

—a Takoyaki one, where Yuuji’s ‘ooo’s’ and ‘aaa’s’ are heard every time the balls are flipped and formed. The cooking on it is perfect, the pieces of octopus sitting just right with enough bite as flavors of soy and Worcestershire come through in its glaze. Gojo only eats one from the set of six that you ordered, and he wishes he just waited, because now Yuuji is eating half of the last one you couldn't finish. 

—a Kushikatsu one, deep fried beef and vegetables coated in crispy, crunchy breadcrumbs and dipped in Tonkatsu sauce. Yuuji ends up finishing three whole sticks, while you manage to eat one. It’s an animated conversation between the two of you that Gojo can’t seem to insert himself into. A part of him feels a little pathetic now, tailing you both like a dog, but he just wants a little bit more of your attention. 

—a Soba shop (not so much a stall) that serves amazing Cold Soba he definitely isn’t missing out on. Yuuji is practically buzzing, excited for anything noodles; it’s the main reason you’d suggested Osaka in the first place. He ducks in the shop last, Yuuji first with you in the middle, and when you settle in your seat right beside him, he snickers endearingly. Gojo can see everything, you’re reminded of that everyday and in moments like this especially. Right now, it's the way you sigh as soon as you release the top button of your pants immediately.

You pout at him as you’re served an order each, the dipping sauce in small ceramic as the noodles lie in bamboo boxes. It’s refreshing and light, just the right balance of sweet and savory; the buckwheat noodles have a lovely bite to them, not at all mushy. When he glances at you, halfway through your bowl, he can tell that you’re already full. 

But just as he offers to finish yours—

“Sensei, are you going to finish that?” 

—there’s Yuuji.

You shake your head, pushing your bowl towards him; Gojo feels that pinch returning. 

A few good minutes of walking find you on the way to another stall—

—a Yakitori one that Yuuji practically skips to, as if he didn’t just finish a bowl and a half of Cold Soba, three sticks of Kushikatsu, three and a half pieces of Takoyaki, a half of one Taiyaki, and a whole order of Okonomiyaki.

Gojo decides to sit this one out, eyeing the Daifuku stand across the street. He’s gone here plenty of times before, but never with you—and if there's anything he wants you to try out here, it's fresh, special mochi, all soft and delectable, delicate in the way its decorated.

He takes off his blindfold, ruffling his hair. With Yuuji having gone ahead, it’s just the two of you. 

“I’m going to buy Daifuku, there’s a special one I want you to taste,” he whispers excitedly, wiggling his eyebrows. 

The expression on your face is the last thing he was expecting. 

Your eyes are dazed, half-lidded, almost like you’re sleepy, and you blink at him twice before you’re able to fully process what he just said. You could be having a food coma right now, just standing. 

“Oh, okay,” you hum, nodding as you smile, dopey, “I’ll follow.” 

He considers just waiting for a bit, because he wants you to go with him. But you insist and shoo him away, telling him that the Daifuku might run out by the time Yuuji reaches the front of the Yakitori line.

So he goes, and maybe it’s a little petty, and immature, and stupid-silly, but he hates how this entire food trip has felt like a battle for your attention between him and Yuuji. 

Even though he’s probably the only one who feels it.

So it’s one-sided. Definitely. 

And he’s losing. Terribly. 

Each individual piece of Daifuku looks majestic, pink mochi with red bean filling, sliced in the middle to leave room for a whole syrup-glazed strawberry. He orders two boxes to bring back home and an extra two pieces, one for the two of you to share and the other for Yuuji. 

Gojo’s mouth is watering and he really wants to take a bite already, but you aren’t anywhere near him. So when he turns around and spots you, mid-chew on the last few bites your stomach can take from that shared Yakitori stick—he feels that pinch again. Because throughout this trip, all you’d done was split savory food with Yuuji, and all he wanted was a bit more attention, sharing half-bites with you. 

When you finally meet his eyes across the street, signature blue amidst bright reds and neon greens, he’s pouting, and he hopes he’s making it very obvious that he wants (needs) you to go to him. 

Your eyes widen before crossing the street, Yuuji right on your heel. 

“Whoah, Gojo Sensei! That looks good!” Yuuji’s voice booms, earning a few looks.

Gojo holds one Daifuku on each hand, the other two boxes tucked in a plastic bag hanging by his elbow. 

“It’s their special one!” He smiles at Yuuji, handing it over. 

You look at him curiously, head tilted to the side as you watch him closely—how his smile doesn’t really reach his eyes. 

Once Yuuji moves out of earshot, his series of ‘mmm’s’ blending in with the bustle of market chatter, you face Gojo and open your mouth wide, “Aaaah,” 

Gojo doesn’t move for the first few seconds, but you meet in the middle eventually, his hand inching towards feeding you while you move your head closer. He keeps his palm open under your chin, cupping it to serve as a catch tray for any filling that might spill out. 

There’s something about the look of you, half-sleepy and asking to be fed, that makes him feel warm and fuzzy—like that pinching feeling earlier never existed. Like he’d gladly do this everyday if you asked for it. 

The soft, plush exterior of the mochi touches your lips, and you bite, the filling oozing out just enough for you to get a good portion of it. Flavors of red bean and strawberry hit your palate, and the filling doesn’t leak, but the syrup coating the strawberry catches onto your nose when you move away. 

At the tip of your nose is a shiny red spot, glistening under the busy lights. The expression on your face is pleased, content—your head doing that side-to-side sway whenever you like the taste of something. 

“Mmm,” you smile at him, “it’s yummy.” 

And he doesn’t know what it is, if it’s the look you’re giving him, or if it's something in the air tonight, but he feels warm and full and still very much like he wants to kiss you. 

So he decides, damn all the passersby.

He does one quick scan around him, making sure that Yuuji, at the very least, is away from the immediate vicinity. And when it’s all clear, he leans in. 

Gojo kisses you on the nose in the middle of a busy street food road, and his lips are soft, almost feather-light, swooping in quickly before anyone can notice. You’re stunned into silence, but the moment you come to, he’s already swiped the strawberry syrup off you. 

His cheeks are starting to turn pink, the sides of his neck already as red as the signs on the food stalls. And he can tell you feel it too, with the way your sleepiness seems to have faded into what now looks like surprise.

Still cute though.

(Always will be, in his eyes). 

So, ‘losing’ isn’t really a word in Gojo’s vocabulary. 

But if it is, he thinks he’d gladly lose to you. 

(Still not to Yuuji though. He maybe still has to keep an eye out for that one).

thank you notes: to niku for being there always!! from answering my questions, brainstorming together, and just all-around everything!! col wouldn't be what it is now without you!! i love u, i hope i gave your love for food justice, niku!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[silverskye13]

Are saints allowed to serve their paladins, or is it mostly a one-way street? Are saints allowed to exist and act when unasked for?

Hmm. This turned a little rambling I apologise. Also I end up saying the word "domain" a lot, so in lieu of finding a good place to explain what I mean by domain, I'll just say it before the cut.

A Saint's "domain" is the thing about the universe they've learned to manipulate, using the faith of the people that believe in them. For large gods who maybe always started as concepts [Order of Remembrance for example], the domain is a broad concept like memory. If memory is involved, it will pull apart the universe to affect it. However, if it wanted to do some kind of miracle [calling a paladin to capture someone maybe, or healing a terrible wound], if doing so would have no effect on its domain, it could not affect change. Smaller saints might have more niche concepts attached to them. [Ie, I have a headcanon VintageBeef's hels is a Saint of Slaughter/Butchery, and is best followed by people who do hoglin hunts in hels. His following is small, and he channels his power for only This Specific Thing, and can affect nothing else.]

I think it depends a bit on the deity in question, and how much deification they get, whether their power is a physical two-way link. Something they use with the same proficiency they put into others.

Small Saints who have basically no followers, and have little to no idea what they stand for, or why, are basically Just Guys. They are Guys powered by someone else's faith, who have interesting powers that manifest on occasion, and they have a habit of collecting very dedicated friend groups. But they are still, at the end of the day, Just Guys. They can act when unasked for, they can help their priests and paladins literally, physically, or do the miracle they want to do themselves, because at that point, everything about them is small and personal, and human. If your neighborhood pastor could work a miracle under a set of memorized rules, and sometimes shook your hand and let you do it too, they would be a Small Saint.

[That's not to say a Small Saint isn't still powerful. They are people who can mess with the weave of the world. Anyone not prepared for that is going to get the shock of their life. Anyone who isn't a Saint who is channeling that, is going to suffer consequences. It's just that, a Small Saint could maybe channel through one person at a time, and they might not even know how they did it. *Coughing noises, glances at plot*]

Medium? Saints? Saints that have a following, that have too many people to have an individual relationship with, get a little more unfathomable and constrained. At some point, messing with the universe has repercussions for everyone. If the Hermits had a whole city of followers, they would default to this. The world looks different to them. They can see the edges, where infinity and coding lies. In hels, a Saint who reaches that point stops seeing people as people, and they themselves stop looking and feeling like people. They can affect several people at once. They can justify things like punishment, and creating a moral code for people to follow. Being able to balance between the universe and hels is more important. They could still intervene on someone's behalf, but it's no longer a personal decision, and now something measured in loyalty, faith, prayer. You are one person, and your Saint is changing the world for a dozen of you, but power has limits.

[I imagine Evil X is somewhere around here. He has creative mode. He knows he can break the world to his will. But he also still has a physical body, and can just walk across the room and move something. He's still a person, he's just a person who's taken on the Uncanny, and knows there are no true repercussions to his actions. He's not a kind Saint, if he can rightly be called one. I imagine he was very destructive when he discovered his power, and had to mellow out over time. His domain has to do with chaos, and breaking things for the sake of breaking them. He had to learn it's a power he can use, not a power he has to use.]

Big Saints [and gods], get eldritch. They don't really exist as people anymore. Maybe they went on pilgrimage one day and never returned, but an echo of them has manifested as something people can tap into now. Maybe they stayed a person as long as possible, but at some point so much faith elevated them into something Different, a change a simpler more human them would have feared, but they no longer remember that simpler person anymore. Instead they are the impulses and principles they ruled themselves and others by, and their only memories have narrowed into parables and legends that only show hints of the person they used to be. They can give their power to a select few people willingly, but they no longer go out of their way to intercede in their daily life. They have gifted a piece of themselves to someone, because that person can be trusted to use it well, but they won't mourn that person if they leave. One person is small in the eye of the universal.

To me, Helsknight's Saint of Blood and Steel is a large, old Saint, with a congregation that deals best with the impersonal. They are people looking to be swords in the hands of the divine, so their Saint treats them as such. If the Saint had no congregation, as a deity always looking for a sword, they would act on their own until they found someone willing, but they would always be looking for a sword.

I also feel like some of how personal and two-way the connection is, is dependent on the nature of the domain.

Tanguish, if he ever becomes a true Saint with a following, doesn't know what his domain is. All he knows is, Helsknight promised to protect him, and so when he needed help, he Called, and Helsknight Answered. It was terrifying. He pulled a thread of the universe and used it to change what should have happened. If Helsknight were suffering, as someone who is human, who can't even see the threads they're pulling, Tanguish would do everything he could to help, and if he stumbled into his domain along the way, he would use it for that purpose. The power he has, whatever it is, can be genuinely harmful when used, because helsmets were not made to feel the full force of the universe -- something that already seeks to devour them on principle. He is someone who just found out that sometimes, seemingly randomly, he touches a person and they're struck by lightning. Whether they willingly touched him, and whether he would willingly take the lightning strike in their place, isn't exactly the current issue.

The God of Memory, whatever gives the Blue Lady her paladin powers, probably feels small and personal despite coming from a large idea and probably never being human. Its domain is Remembrance, and that implies something that tries to be personal despite how Eldritch it is. When its power is channeled, it always harms the channeler grandly and dramatically [the Blue Lady saying a small prophesy and being blinded by ink is a very light repercussion. It doesn't know what humanity is. It doesn't know what a body is. Or eating or drinking, or that someone who needs crutches to walk can't just drop them and not hurt muscle and bone. It just knows its will is needed so it acts. It is learning. It doesn't want to lose its followers, because it wants to form long, lasting memories of them. But it will break a lot of people before it learns limits.]

Meanwhile, the Saint of Blood and Steel definitely started as a person. They have an origin point [the plot will get there someday], they even have a Known Ascension. But they are a Saint to things like Vengeance and Justice, distant concepts that are best when they're not personal, a swinging sword that Exacts A Price. Channeling them will damage because the nature of the power is damaging, but they temper that by only calling people for a cause worthy of dying for. If there is a chance jumping off a cliff will break your legs, they will first guarantee there's a reason to get to the bottom. The Saint of Blood and Steel knows who they are, and knows that every knight or paladin or priest to pass through their halls is, almost certainly, doomed. They might have tried to save a few, long ago when they were something closer to human, but now they know a universal truth: whether they succeed or fail in saving anyone, whoever served them will have done it willingly, and there will always be someone along to replace them. When a sword is broken, you do not mourn the sword. You pick up another. Though you may grow melancholy for something cared for, now lost.

No matter how large, or loved, or powerful a Saint is, the Universe will always be more so. It has to be. If every helsmet had to become a Saint to hold a fraction of the potential a Hermit has, and every Hermit has faith in the universe, in the fact that it exists, that it speaks to them when they fight the monsters in the world, that it loves them, the Universe will always be bigger than even the largest hels-born Saint could fathom.

[0v3rcast]

Self Aware Wuthering Waves Ideas:

Feel free to use them. Just tell me if you do (so I can read your work). This will be a list of random idea bits. Spoilers ahead.

The creator of the world (you) is called either the Metronome [providing the backbone of existence by 'keeping time' with your metaphysical heartbeat in the same way as the device does in music] or the First Howl [the birth of existence in deafening sound, with the resonance of your voice shattering unreality to make everything].

You loved music in your first life, and sound-based powers were the first thing you'd unlocked with godly energy. You took a mortal body to walk among your creations and know them.

Your first body died during a disastrously failed peacetalk between two old-world nations, and the first Tacet Field grew from your blood. It's believed that the TDs are the world's rage at humankind for their actions manifested.

The Threnodians and Sentinels are made from your old body, though the parts have been long since warped by time and collected resonance.

The Threnodians have a core sound, a resonation of your dying moments. A gurgle, a gasp. Choking. Blood dripping. The strongest Threnodian is made from your final exhale of breath, and the strongest Sentinel is made from your final inhale of breath.

The reason you can collect so many TD echoes in the game is because it's you who is helping the Rover. They state it's a rare occurrence to get an echo normally in one of the quests - versus the Rover, who can get entire groups of them in a single fight if they're lucky.

Religious practices involving atonement for the guilt of humanity [your killers] are common, and in the most severe sects, some will go so far as to flagellate themselves or have a religious leader do it monthly.

TDs don't attack religious buildings constructed in your honor. They just take them over for themselves, half-understanding the significance and also liking the acoustics of the rooms.

Live music is always to be played at one of your temples. Since very little of the music you like is remembered this many years after your death, they're left to choose their own playlists.

In places without instruments, people use what they can to make noise, and there's a longstanding tradition of oral storytelling in the form of songs in places where people live.

It's believed that there's a sacred note or series of notes that you love dearly, based on a mistranslation of an old-world religious book from some abandoned religion.

The Rover and friends shouldn't be able to survive half the shit they do - you're giving them and others in the main story plot armor in the form of a nearly imperceptible sound that throws off aim and weakens the strength in muscles.

Full resurrection isn't possible for anyone else, so when you're reviving someone mid-fight, it's the equivalent of using smelling salts to wake someone up from a decapitation, but somehow it works.

Your reappearance in the world was first thought to be the release of some ancient Threnodian that was older than any known ones, or perhaps even the being that embodies the end of reality. Nah, s'just you, much to the relief and joy of humanity.

Sure, your powers are... dwindled, but you did un-mortis. That's fucking crazy.

Your avatar, the Rover, kicking Dreamless' ass and metaphorically skullfucking Ovathrax's attempted rematch was basically seen as a sign that you've mostly forgiven humanity for their mistake.

It's impossible for you to have a doppelganger, as the amount of resonance that's required to sustain your physical form (and is emanated by you) would reduce other people to a fucking pulp or shake their organs into mist inside their torsos.

You have no voice of your own when you go to Sol-3. You're like a TD, in the way that the only sounds you can make are sounds that you've heard and collected.

It's the one thing that's forever lost to you, and for weeks after your arrival, you sound like an EDM mashup as you try to speak to people but don't realize what you're saying is total nonsense and scrambled noises.

Early on, you can say intelligible things with enough effort, but it takes all your focus to string together even a handful of words. Sign language is a good friend to you in the early days, if you know it, and if you don't, they're happy to teach you.

People are deeply unsettled by your manner of speaking because sometimes you laugh, but it sounds like someone's spine breaking in multiple places, or you yawn, and it sounds like someone in a car crash.

You don't have any echoes when in the world. The TDs just want to hang out with you anyway.

Eventually, Outcasts find oldworld tech full of machined voices, and now you sound like Miku. Or like Microsoft Sam. Or multiple of them at once, making you seem to talk the way the Master from the original Fallout talks.

[virgo-dream]

[KICKS DOWN DOOR] DID SOMEBODY SAY DREAMLING HEADCANON?

Let me try and think of something I've not seen before but 100% fervently believe to be true!!! ok ok---

Dream is def. a clotheshorse. Look at that battle skirt, god. Hob is not, 'least not in modern days. Headcanon: after they get together Dream is absolutely a sniffy little cunt about Hob's clothes. They're so banal. We've had Dream being cozy and fuckable in Hob's stolen sweaters and footie shirts. Let's have Hob being taken to a bespoke tailor's shop that may or may not exist in the Waking world and/or the mortal plane, strictly speaking. Dream is the owner and operator, and Hob the only customer. Hob doesn't just put up with it in some sweet, Hobbishly indulging way - he fucking loves it. He's a hedonist. Loves the feeling of expensive fabrics against his skin, the line of tailored clothes transforming his unchanging body, loves Dream's proprietary little smirk at dressing Hob. Loves the way Dream looks at him all the time now, knowing and pleased and heated. He's always loved good clothes. But these are great clothes. It gets so out of control that Hob has to tell his colleagues Dream is a tailor, because there's no way he'd be able to afford this otherwise. If he didn't have, you know. Boyfriend privileges. "You are a tailor though, sort of," says Hob, a bit soused after a faculty party, dressed like liquid sex in a gunmetal grey suit, "S'just, the fabric of the collective unconsciousness and all the words we've ever written." Dream is starting to smile when Hob adds, "Also, you brought this upon yourself." 'This' being Dream, reluctantly agreeing to produce a bespoke prom dress for department chair's daughter. Headcanon: due to his own hubris Dream accidentally spends the rest of that decade of Hob's 'life' moonlighting (daylighting?) as a reclusive fashion designer with a reputation for utter brilliance and eccentricity, who takes all his commissions exclusively by referral and vets clients, bizarrely, through his (now tenured, imagine that) history professor husband.

Dream enjoys it rather more than he expected. It's a little like designing dreams - or, in a few memorable cases, nightmares - for humans to wear. He understands the stories and power of clothing. He is soothed to be asked, over and over, for such a trivial boon: something to wear that they've been dreaming of. He enjoys having work in the Waking.

Mostly, though, he likes to look at Hob Gadling, marvel and living story, wearing his clothing. Wearing him. Moving through the world in sleeve and collar of his making, and saying, to all who look and all who ask: I am his.

Well, I knew I could count on you for some quality fashion headcanons Gloam!!! Border Country sends its regards I guess!!!!

But honestly, wouldn't he though? Because if you think about it, every piece of clothing ever designed had to be visualised or daydreamed in some way by the mind of a designer, and if it goes through the Dreaming, it is Dream's by proxy. So yeah, every couture design, every Gucci runway, every weird ass Balenciaga ready to wear monstrocity and every Schiaparelli gown has Dream's designing hands involved somehow.

And I can also imagine Dream making all of Hob's clothes, including the softest t-shirts and sweatpants, the silkiest pyjamas, the most comfortable jeans that are never too tight and never too loose either. And when he can't be around, Dream makes sure the clothes hug Hob in just the right way, to remind Hob that he's there, in spirit, as humans like to say, and that he'll try to be around as soon as possible.

Can you imagine Hob having a bad day and Dream just......... manifesting the softest most gentle clothes around him to hold him in bed as he would until he can be there himself? Or whenever Hob finds a student crying, there's always a handkerchief in his pocket, and somehow whenever any of his students wipe their tears with them they just have the most restorative night of sleep ever?

Dream making a suit for Hob to defend yet another thesis, and the suit being so comfortable and making Hob feel so so so confident it's insane.

Aaaaah the many many love languages of Dream of The Endless and his husband Hob Gadling whose love language is just Dream

[yanderes-galore]

This was requested by an Anon.

Sort of similar to the other concept I did for him, just with a different pairing/intention. This became more self indulgent than I wanted, but I'm obsessed with the idea of such a badass guy going soft for you.

Yandere! Doom Slayer Concept

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Protective behavior, Violence/murder, Slight stockholm syndrome if you squint, Clingy behavior, Trauma, OOC Slayer I guess?

The Doom Slayer seems like he'd be an overprotective yandere for the most part.

He falls into one of my favorite dynamics, big buff superhuman falls for weaker darling.

He'd definitely keep you in the Fortress of Doom after meeting you, believing you aren't safe on Earth until the demons are rid of.

At first he'd probably be rather dismissive.

Based on what he's gone through, he isn't the most sane person.

He doesn't know how to interact with you for a bit other than checking in on you.

He knows after you've been on Earth you're quite shaken.

He's used to seeing demons everywhere but he has to get used to you being a bit more fragile.

His yandere intentions don't manifest until much later on, to you he just seems like humanity's protector.

A slayer sent to Earth to cleanse it of its sins.

Plus, like my previous concept, you grow close to him.

It's you being in the Fortress of Doom that allows you to see the Doom Slayer in his more vulnerable moments.

You've caught him rearranging his little collectible toys, holding back a playful snicker he couldn't hear.

You also watch him tinker with his praetor suit.

He enjoys it when you sit beside him while he tests components, simply asking about him and his mission.

Not like you get much, he usually likes to communicate through actions.

When he really starts to feel comfortable around you, he lets his guard down.

One time you caught the armored soldier slouched over, asleep surprisingly.

He doesn't usually sleep... or at least you've never seen him.

It must've been a power nap as when you tried to help him be more comfortable, he woke up to you.

He merely stared at you while you hovered over him, a gaze so gentle and full of concern....

Luckily his helmet hid his gaze-

Speaking of which, you rarely see the Doom Slayer without his armor on.

He hasn't been around people often, used to gore and tearing demons apart.

Which is why when he spends softer moments with you he acts so confused.

One time you saw him with his helmet off, you both looked at each other shocked.

Then you smiled.

"Y'know, you look nice without it."

He stares at you in surprise before changing his gaze.

You are the only recent human he's close to now.

Sitting with him in his station... seeing what he looks like.

Your compliment encourages him to take it off more around you.

It'll be awhile before he takes the full armor off, but the helmet is fine.

It weakens the barrier between you.

Such a simple action makes human contact so much easier.

The Doom Slayer isn't sure how to act when he develops softer feelings for you.

You give him such a gentle look, so much softer than his hardened gaze.

One time, you weren't thinking and lightly touched his exposed face.

You both freeze and you pull away.

"Sorry..."

"...No."

He didn't want you to pull away.

Next thing you know you simply sat by him, hand in his own.

You two could be the only humans alive and you wouldn't know.

All you ever see is him.

Can you really blame yourself for getting attached?

The Slayer himself thaws at your presence.

You make him, someone meant to slaughter, melt.

The first thing he does after his missions is look for you.

You're usually keeping things tidy while he's gone.

Then he greets you with a tap on the shoulder, putting the helmet down.

For the most part, around you he's uncharacteristically soft.

You give him comfort similar to what Daisy gave him.

His pet rabbit, yes, the Slayer compares you to his closest pet.

A small, gentle animal... meant to be held and cherished.

He may even hold you when he's comfortable enough.

You're all of a sudden picked out of your seat, placed on the cold metal of his armor.

He then ruffles your hair in calming patterns, sighing.

You have an effect on him.

Even more so when you hold his face, trying to share the affection.

For the most part, you may reciprocate to him.

He's the only human you have left....

It's when he gets overprotective that you distance yourself a bit.

He gets clingier, wanting you by him when he's around.

He even gets frustrated when he has to continue his mission.

The lack of personal space irks you.

Yet you also enjoy the Slayer's affections.

You just wish you could wander the station without him breathing down your neck.

It slowly becomes less about overprotective behavior and more just him exploring this fixation he has with you.

He pets you when he hugs you....

It's so weird to feel when he does it.

If he catches you no longer giving him those gentle looks or soft touches, it upsets him.

You saw him without his armor when you wanted to be alone once.

Like he was trying to make you more comfortable by being more casual.

Sighing, you give it a shot.

He calmed down when you laid on top of him, allowing him to take in your warmth and run his hands down your back.

The Slayer would slaughter every demon in existence for you.

The thought of such beasts hurting you...

Taking you away from his arms after he's tasted comfort...

It keeps him going.

That alone is enough motivation to continue his crusade.

He'd kill anything for you.

Just to have you in his arms.

You rarely see his yandere tendencies.

It's all taken out on the demons.

A Marauder commented about you once...

The Slayer didn't let him finish, a chainsaw shoved deep in his gut.

Rage fuels the Slayer.

Along with obsession, a craving for attention from you.

He's told you make him weak...

He responds by killing more and more hordes.

He's meant to be a gladiator, a fighter for demonic entertainment...

Now he's yours and he's happy.

What would make him happier is a kiss, a true unfiltered form of love from you.

He sinks further and further both into the army of demons, and his obsession for you.

He worries he'll scare you.

That you could never love a beast such as him.

Yet, you reciprocate mostly.

You encourage him to relax at the station with you.

He'd never give you up.

The demons would have to pry you out of his grasp if they wanted to take you away from him...

Although their claws would be cut before they got the chance.

For being what he is, towards the one he cares most about he is obsessive, protective, and clingy.

But in the situation of Doom Eternal, it isn't that bad.

He's all you have any way... how could you not soon grow to love him?

[tumblingxelian]

The Semblance of Chloe Bourgeois

So, while currently on an ML hyperfixation, my decade long love of RWBY has never faded. As a result I tend to love looking other franchises characters and thi8nking about their potential Semblances.

IE, the manifestation of their Soul in the form of a power, usually awakened either naturally through time & effort or via trauma/survival which serves as a window into the characters identity & if it evolves, their growth.

This led to Chloe thoughts, as it typical of me.

I know most people give her a spin on Venom and that's fair, tis a very believable Semblance. But I also think it doesn't dig deep enough because Chloe's ties to paralysis came from a Miraculous, not herself.

No, what I think Chloe's Semblance would be is a form if mimicry!

This is quite possible in canon, book protag Velvet Scarletina can mimic people's fighting styles & created a weapon that lets her project hard light copies of their weapons to utilize it best.

We also have backstory character, Marcus Black who could literally steal people's Semblances, doing so to his son as a means of control... It didn't pan out & Mercury beat him to death XD

So there's several ways it could manifest but all of them would align well with Chloe. Who built so much of her identity around copying her mother, trying to adopt roles to suit a situation over "Being herself" and tried to copy Ladybug as well. This is a deep part of her character and it doesn't need to be healthy to be a Semblance.

What's more, it could easily factor into all of her self esteem issues. From lacking a strong sense of self. To a lack of real ego as she knows "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery mediocrity can pay to greatness". Said Semblance likely has limits. But! But it would be impressive enough that she could boast about it on a surface level.

More below:

1: Combat Style mimicry: This would let Chloe memorize and mimic how people move, talk and fight. Whether these memories are perfect and last forever, or are only one use, or can be lost by simply forgetting them is up in the air.

But the end result is it would definitely allow her to coast a bit through training, but also leave her feeling she lacks a distinct style in herself. Let alone the fact it likely feels like she'll never 'master' any of them, just keep collecting little stolen fragments of what others have.

2: Soul Witness: Just by seeing a persons Semblance, Chloe is able to essentially recreate it. However her version is watered down, weaker and almost certainly temporary if not one use, or perhaps only lasting a day.

This is again, extremely potent in theory, and in a combat School or Academy or tournament environment, its more than a little broken. Because so long as she has Aura she can keep switching up Semblances. But at the end she knows the imitation is weaker & she is always left empty at the end of the day.

3: Soul Touch: Like the above, Chloe can copy people's Semblances, but here she needs to physically touch them to do so. This allows for a perfect copy, but not instant mastery or control & as before likely fades with time or will be replaced by the next Semblance she takes.

Powerful and theoretically versatile, she has plenty to be proud of, but it is also only as strong as the last Semblance she took, only as effective as Chloe herself is, only as good of a decision to take it as she made. So it keeps coming back to Chloe not being enough.

Conclusion: As I said above, Semblances can evolve, Lie Ren went from subtly empathic and able to suppress his & others emotions to a full on empath capable of perceiving and understand other people's emotions at a glance as he overcame his unhealthy coping mechanisms.

I am unsure how a Semblance like mimicry would evolve if Chloe came into having a better head space regarding her own identity, or the Semblance itself. Though its possible it wouldn't need to change, but merely be her perspective that needs an update. Like how Qrow came to realize his Semblance that caused passive misfortune had more to do with his own self loathing than it did it being like a curse.

But those are just my thoughts, hope they were interesting!

[marigoldwitch]

Witchcraft | Dirt

There are tons of different dirt, from different places, that can all hold different energies and properties. Firstly, a lot of these are my own personal correspondences. So, if something doesn't resonate with you, don't worry just try to figure out what does. Hopefully this list will at least give you an idea of where to start or maybe help you think outside the box when it comes to this specific popular tool in witchcraft.

Graveyard or Cemetery Dirt

I feel as if this is probably one of the most popular dirt, that a lot of witches have experience using. This dirt is great for lots of different work like ancestral, spirit, protection, healing, and lucky are some of the most popular uses for this dirt. Some witches believe that graveyard dirt is only useful if it's collected from an actual grave. Personally, I believe any dirt collected from a graveyard (whether it be an actual grave or just somewhere on the property) can be just as powerful. If you're doing ancestral work, it's obviously suggested that you get dirt directly from an ancestor's grave. And it's advised that you don't take dirt from the grave of someone you don't know. And don't forget to always leave an offering, even if you don't take from any specific grave (and just take it from the property) still be sure to leave an offering for the spirits that rest there.

Here's another post I made about graveyard dirt alternatives

Church or Holy Dirt

I don't see this one talked about as often as other dirt, but I think church dirt can be a very powerful tool in spells and rituals related to cleansing, healing and protection. Depending on the type of church the dirt is collected from it can also be used for other purposes too. For example, I consider catholic church dirt to be most useful in workings related to keeping secrets or helping me undercover secrets. Church dirt is powerful because the grounds are believed to be "holy ground." Also, depending on how long the church has been there, the amount of energy that has built up over the years can contribute too. Of course, I would suggest doing your research on whatever church you're thinking about getting dirt from. Just because something is considered "holy" and old, doesn't mean it's good. Plenty of churches hold bad and dark energy too. So be mindful.

An alternative for church dirt could be altar or sacred space dirt. If you practice a lot outside, in a specific spot, the ground beneath you holds that energy too. In my opinion, I'd consider that to be holy or sacred energy.

Crossroads Dirt

A crossroads is an intersection of two or more roads. I kind of bend this definition just a little bit because finding a dirt road isn't always easy. Finding a dirt path however, those are easier to come by. So, I consider cross paths to hold similar energy and properties. This dirt is great for spells and rituals related to travel (specifically astral or spiritual traveling), decision making, and manifesting opportunities. There are a ton of interesting lore around crossroads too. Most popularly known (in western cultures) as a place to summon the devil or demons that one can make a deal with for riches, fame, health etc.

Forest or Woods Dirt

Commonly a place someone might go to escape, and sometimes even get lost, forest dirt (or dirt from the woods, or a heavily wooded area) would be great for spells and rituals associated with lost things, adventurous travel, and astral work.

Dirt From Your Home

This dirt is best used in spells or rituals that directly involve or affect your physical home. Protection and banishing mostly. It's a great way to represent your home and it's energy in spells and rituals too. If you live in an apartment home, or you live in a city, you can use your own house plant's dirt as an alternative. If you're planning on traveling, you can carry a little dirt from your home as a "return home safely" charm as well.

Garden Dirt

Surprisingly this dirt can be one of the hardest to get your hands on because not everyone just has a garden, they can scoop some dirt from. Also, most gardens usually are on private property. But if you can sneak a little bit of dirt from a park garden or community garden, without ruining anything or disturbing any of the plants in the garden, I say go for it. Garden dirt is great for manifesting, growing, fertility, and abundance. Be sure to leave an offering though.

I also consider indoor herb gardens to be garden dirt too, and I believe they hold the same energy. Or even if you just have a small balcony garden at your apartment or townhome, that counts too.

Bank Dirt

Hear me out, this dirt holds lots of energy related to money, luck, and finances. This dirt is powerful in spells related to these things too. A little bank dirt in a spells jar for financial stability is very powerful.

Railroad Dirt

This dirt is perfect for spells and rituals related to traveling, exploration, and new adventures.

Park Dirt

Perfect in spells and rituals associated with community and bounding. Local parks are known for being places that people can spend time together, go to community events, and build new friendships.

Courthouse, Jail, and Prison Dirt

This dirt is great for spells and rituals related to justices and protection. It could also be used in hexes for the same reasons.

Playground Dirt

Associated with innocence and wonder, this dirt would work great in workings related to childhood or your inner child work.

Hospital Dirt

Obviously, this dirt can be powerful in spells related to healing and health. Be really mindful of the type of hospital this dirt is from. The energy at a mental health facility is going to be different than at an ER or a maternity hospital. This could theoretically be used in cursing and hexing too. So keep that in mind as well.

School or Library Dirt

Great for spells and rituals associated with education and learning in general.

Why dirt though?

Dirt is most commonly used to represent the element Earth in witchcraft and magical practices. It's not only believed that dirt holds energy related to the earth element, but that dirt itself can absorb and hold onto the energy around it. It helps plants grow, which is why a lot of witches believe burying manifestation spells will help our spells work better and faster; it'll help our manifestation grow.

Since dirt is believed to absorb and hold onto energy, it makes since that dirt in specific locations would correspond with specific energies. If hundreds and thousands of people have used a specific location for one similar purpose those grounds would be overflowing with that energy. Bank = Money. Courthouse = Justice. Graveyard = Death or Spirits. Crossroads = Travel. Church = Sacred.

How do I collect dirt?

Be very mindful of where you're taking dirt from. Don't go digging through some random person's yard or garden for dirt lol. Don't forget to leave an offering, when necessary, too. I try to be as discreet as possible when I'm collecting dirt from a more crowded public place like a courthouse or bank. Other times it's a little easier to collect dirt without many weird stares, like in the woods, at an empty church, a graveyard, old railroad tracks etc. Make sure you have something to store your dirt in (a small jar or pouch) and be sure to properly label it when you get a chance.

So how do I use it?

There are so many different ways to actually incorporate dirt into your spells and rituals, that there is no possible way I would be able to list them all in one post. But get creative with it and don't be afraid to get your hands dirty. It's not just an ingredient for a spell jar!

I'll try my best to share different ways I've used dirt in my practice in a future post, that way I can hopefully give you some ideas on what you could do in your practice.

[ravencromwell]

Current Shades Of Magic question haunting me: was Maxim Maresh working a deal with the Danes to make something comparable to an Inheritor for Rhy? (And by "working", I mean: he thought he was being real savvy while the Danes lied through their teeth for years and kept the credulous arnesian king on a fish-hook while they figured out how to rip a hole through time and space.)We know Tieren flatly refused to help him make one, and that Makt is highly skilled in binding magic. And Maxim's entire White London dynamic, especially in Darker Shade, never made a bit of fucking sense to me. Take, as exhibit 1: "Holland delivered a letter yesterday," explained the king. "But couldn't stay to collect the response. I told him I would send it back with you. Kell frowned. "All is well, I hope," he said carefully. He rarely knew the contents of the royal messages he carried, but he could usually glean the tone—the correspondences with Grey London had devolved to mere formality, the cities having little in common, while the dialogue with White was constant and involved and left a furrow in the king's brow." In scrupulous fairness, Schwab does give us an explanation for the involved nature of the letters, saying that the Red Crown was haunted by its decision to seal the doors between Red and White; that they wanted to provide magical advice as a kind of recompense and reparations. But we're also provided a very plausible explanation for how Vitari helps Lila move through the worlds, which gets very undermined by Lila as Antari. And living in the midst of the most nakedly imperial power of our modern age, I'm incredulous at best and scoffingly dubious at worst. With some very! rare exceptions, large, prosperous countries give small struggling ones shit either to look good, or because they want something out of the exchange.

Was it being _haunted that made Maxim Maresh send twelve-year-old Kell into the middle of a very violent country? Or was it _knowing by that time that Rhy most likely wouldn't be manifesting any magic. Kell says to Vortalis that this will be the beginning of "re-opening relations". Which makes sense, seeing as Antari are a dying breed, and Arnes hasn't had one for a while and Makt for even longer. It's not Maxim's bad parenting in sending Kell to White so young that has my antennae raising, but the bad diplomacy. Maxim's Kell flaw, after all, is that he sees him more as a political and propaganda tool than a person. And he's letting him go to Makt at twelve? When Kell could die, and a large reason Faro and Vesk are in line right then is because they believe Kell is integral to Arnes strength. I don't believe Maxim Maresh, who had the political cool to immediately think of how Faro and Vesk would react and demand secrecy about Rhy's near-death in Conjuring while everyone else is in knots of grief and he must be pushing down his own feelings with herculean effort decided to resume communications to salve his conscience. It just doesn't fit with the rest of who he is as king.

But, as several people wonder when Tieren chastises Maxim over the Inheritor: what wouldn't a father do for his son? Put his other son in jeopardy, if he thought he could make an attractive enough offer to get a (probably) ruthless king of a ruthless people to make him something? It would certainly line up with what he does throughout the series.

Finally: Maxim is adamant that "The Danes will pay" before he learns they're dead. Except seriously? How, Maxim? You planning to send the Antari who they already used as a pawn back as a one man army? Because no one else is going through.

Maxim Maresh, for all his faults, is too good a soldier to send Kell into that battle. So, either he's just blowing off steam and the threat has no teeth, or the threat has vicious teeth. Because the Crown has been sending the Danes advice: maybe instructions on relatively—to Arnesian thinking—small elemental magics like minor water redirection that have become integral to Makt's irrigation under the Danes, or something else entirely. There are a million little ways the Crown could've been helping; the question is _why. Why, in Darker, did Maxim, a a busy man, concoct a thick response within a day and send his best weapon into a violent place _after _dark when it could have waited till morning. Feels to me like a man hurriedly running after something the Danes are always "close to finishing" and that he wants, very, very much.

[alicedrawslesmis]

ok this chapter of les mis letters (2.2.1. Number 24,601 Becomes Number 9,430) is EXTREMELY important to understand the rest of the novel

les mis is a messy book but I am constantly amazed by how hugo poetically creates these microcosms of the whole novel in very short chapters. Like, I spend a while not reading it but then I get back to it and I see just how circular and how well crafted this novel is despite how messy it is. Contains multitudes etc

ok, what do I mean by this? One: Hugo has a straightforward political message that he wants to convey in his own convoluted and idiosyncratic ways, and every chapter repeats that same message within itself and also as a part of a larger narrative.

So what we just had in the previous book is the fall of a great titan, Napoleon, who represented a sort of french spirit. Hugo tell us his thesis: the 19th century is the end of the age of great men and the rise in community where authority is spread equally. We don't have titans, we have democracies. His fall is followed in text by the fall of M. Madeleine, a popular man who was the "soul" of this small town, a titan of industry, who - being toppled - took with him the prostperity of the town. It continues his message of 'a great patriarch is no solution to collective suffering'. M sur M's prosperity died when the one guy who was holding it together went away

(I also think that the runaway cart scene is a demonstration of that too. JVJ can't lift the cart by himself, but in risking his life the rest of the onlookers rushed to help and saved Fauchelevent. The same principle)

In a way JVJ's rise to a position of mayor mirrors Napoleon's rise to power propped up by a massive wave of popular outcry even a little bit despite himself. He wasn't aiming for it, but he got there and he made himself emperor (nowadays we don't really have that but we need to understand that the whole concept of king/emperor was understood by most people to be a human manifestation of the body politico. This is illustrated very clearly by the cover for Thomas Hobbes's Leviathan, where the population becomes the body of the king:

Hobbes codified the idea of the social contract and of absolute monarchies)

But also, unrelated to this chapter specifically: I believe Hugo is directly refuting Hobbes when he claims that the collective spirit of the people of France is not in the shape of a king or of a tyrant, but of a lion. It's not in a single man that we confine authority and power but in the collective. And so the man in this equation is superfluous. No need for a great man anymore!

Anyway, in conclusion: I would describe les mis as a big spiral where the narrative keeps circling itself to form a larger picture that still reflects the same shape. And I always forget that, but then I come back to the book and I'm smacked in the face by that again.

(if you've never read les mis, the newspaper articles in this chapter are also a surprise tool that will help us later)

[it-was-all-a-beautiful-dream]

The Beacon Witch

-Y/n moves to Beacon Falls to stay with her Guardian Deaton and finds love in the shape of a wolf- Reader x Derek Hale-

Leaving school and going to stay with your godfather in a place you’d never heard of before wasn’t what you’d had in mind. Your motorbike roared as you came to park outside the small veterinary clinic. 

You hadn’t seen Deaton in years, mostly because his work made him travel a lot. He was practically your Uncle, now that your last parent had passed, you were officially under his supervision. New home, new life, new school. That wasn’t daunting at all… 

To make matters worse, you weren’t a normal teenage girl. No, that would be too easy. You were a Witch. Not like the ones you see on tv, green skinned, big long wart nose. Nope, a normal teenage girl, motorbike, Doc Martens and leather jacket, not to mention your grimoire that you carried everywhere with you. 

So far, your life had been pretty plain sailing, it wasn’t until the months before the death of your father that things had started to go down hill and fast. Before then, you didn’t even know Witches existed, let alone that you were one. Your powers started to manifest when your father got his first diagnosis, it was like the universe was telling you that you needed something extra just to survive the next few months and then after. Now here you were. You’d had to figure everything out on your own. The only guidance were a few books and notes your mother had left behind to you in her will. Thats who you inherited your witchy abilities from apparently. Among the books were stories of other creatures, vampires, Shapeshifters… Werewolves. You would have laughed, but considering you had magical powers, you had to believe you weren’t the only supernatural thing out there.

Deaton had offered to collect you. 4 hours on a bike was a long journey but one that you felt you needed to take on your own. Driving into Beacon Hills had felt… ominous. You usually had a sixth sense for these kinds of things and the town just gave off vibes of danger and death. You didn’t know much about Beacon Hills, your little research of the place brought up numerous deaths within the last few months, multiple disappearances, but hey, at least your new school had a great lacrosse team *insert eye roll here*

The engine of your bike turned off with a roar. Swinging your leg over you balanced the machine and kicked the stand up. It was warm and you had regretted wearing your bike jacket but safety first and all that…. You were quick to remove your helmet, swishing your hair away from your face, grateful for the slight bit of breeze. Adjusting the bag on your back, you started towards the animal clinic door. He had told you its where he most likely be when you arrived and if not, you could always hang out until he got back. 

The entrance was cool, instantly hit by a wave of air conditioning. The little bell at the top of the door chimed letting him know someone was here. The person that came out of the back room wasn’t who you’d expected. Instead you were faced with a boy your age. Dark shaggy hair, a squint jawline and narrowing eyes. 

“Were closed.” Rude. His attitude sucked. You pointed a thumb toward the door and walked toward the counter, setting your helmet down. 

“Guess the locks on the door didn’t get the memo.” You rolled your eyes at the boys shocked expression. It wasn’t your fault you were being standoffish, he was rude first! 

“Scott it’s okay, this is my goddaughter Y/N.” You smiled widely as Deaton rounded the counter, coming out from behind it to give you a much needed hug. You sighed, relishing in the moment. You’d missed him. Missed this. The feeling of someone caring for you rather than you having to always care for them. 

“Oh hey, i’m sorry for being a jerk, I’m Scott.” The boy stuttered and stuck out his hand for you to shake. You blushed a little. On a second look, he was kinda cute, in a boy next door kind of way. “I work for your godfather part time when i’m not at school.” Ah, so I was right, he was my age and most likely, we’d be in the some of the same classes together. 

“It’s alright haha, I bet you don’t get a lot of strangers around these parts. I’m Y/N and I think we will probably have classes together if i’m guessing your age right! Maybe you’ll be able to show me around, if you’re not too busy.” You smiled at the boy again. He wasn’t your usual type, but you could definitely see yourself being friends with him. At this point, you needed all the friends you could get. Being the new girl sucked. 

——————————————————————————————————

Joining a new school hadn’t been as bad as you’d expected actually. You’d been there two weeks and already you had a new group of friends. Alison, Lydia, Scott and Stiles. They’d been nice enough to take you in instead of letting you walk around like a lost puppy and now you felt like part of something. You couldn’t find the word for your friendship group, you were almost like a pack. Funny considering Scott was a Werewolf. He hadn’t told you that, neither had Deaton, it was like you had a Witchy honing beacon that blared ‘wolf’ as soon as you met him. 

Things at home were good too. In the beginning you thought that maybe moving in with Deaton would be weird but it was far from it. It just felt natural and he took on the parental role pretty well and quickly too. Also, he knew you were a Witch, which shocked you to the core. The day you arrived and after Scott left that’s when he dropped the truth bomb. You were a Witch, he was a Druid. Thats partly the reason he was your godfather in the first place, he had been best-friends with your mother and she knew that one day you might go looking for answers. 

Which brings you to right now. Standing outside your new high school with your new friends. Your chatter was interrupted by the screech of car tyres coming to a stop. In front of you a sleek black dodge. The windows were too tinted to see inside but you didn’t have to wait long. The door was thrown open and out stood the most gorgeous man you think you’d ever seen in your life. Tall dark and handsome just about covered the tip of the words used to describe the god standing in front of you. He knew he was gorgeous too. That smirk. Panty dropping smirk. His brow was furrowed, he wasn’t in a good mood as he approached Scott. Before he reached him, he stopped, eyes landing right on you. He was staring, a shocked expression now gracing his beautiful features. If you weren’t nervous before, you were now as you watched the man stalk toward you. 

“I’m Derek.” He smiled at you, a smile you knew you’d never get used to. Also, another wolf, you could sense he was more powerful than Scott. 

“I’m Y/N.” He took your hand in his and instead of shaking it he kissed your knuckles. What a gentleman. If you weren’t leaning against your bike you probably would have swooned and fallen over. In the background you could hear Stiles talking to Scott. 

“What in the hell am I witnessing right now.” You heard Lydia tell Stiles to shut up, elbowing him in the side. “Ow!” You and Derek were still lost in each others eyes, the world seemed to disappear around you both, until someone coughed to gain your attention.

“How romantic.” You heard Lydia sigh in the background but it was Scott who was standing in front of you. 

“I hate to break this meeting up but Y/N, Deaton is expecting us and I don’t want to be late.. again.” 

——————————————————————————————————

As you pondered over your homework in the front of the clinic, your mind couldn’t help but float back to the moment you met Derek Hale. Yous sighed. Puppy love. Oh sweet baby jesus he was fineeee. He never got to say what he wanted to Scott, you both left in a hurry realising the time. You wished you’d had longer to speak to Derek, you had a feeling though that it wouldn’t be the last of seeing him around. 

Your day dreaming was interrupted as the bell on the door dinged, you looked up with a smile about to greet the person who had arrived but the smile faded fast. You didn’t know who the man was standing in front of you but you didn’t like his vibe. His whole aura was off and flickered between the colours of vibrant red and a sickly yellow colour. Red normally meant danger, and the sickly yellow when it came to seeing aura normally meant something along the lines of chaos or greed. Nope, not someone you wanted to deal with today. He’d obviously seen you before you could make your great escape and it wasn’t like he was alone. Two large men flanked either side of him, both wearing leather jackets and sunglasses. Menacing didn’t even cover the half of it. 

“Hi there, how can I help you today sir?” Fake it till you make it girl. You switched on your charm. Kill em with kindness. The man grinned back at you slowly. 

“I’m here to see Deaton, tell him Gerard is here to see him.” You gulped. Heck, normally you’d be braver than this but your fight or flight senses were telling you to get the hell out of dodge and so that’s what you did. Off your stool in seconds, you moved through to the back room where you noticed Scott crouched down in the corner. HIs finger to his lips. Oh god, if this couldn’t get any weirder…. 

“Ummmm Uncle Deat’s, there’s a scary old dude here to see you, says his name is Gerard..” Your godfather rounded the corner, for a split second you thought you saw concern but if anyone could fake a smile better than you it was Deaton. 

“Thank you Y/N, please wait in here.” He pointed to Scott who waved at you to come over to him. What in the fuck is going on… has everyone gone crazy? You played along though, you creeped over to the corner of the room and crouched down in the corner with Scott. 

“Are you going to tell me why were crouched in a corner hiding from a man who looks dustier than spongebob when left in the sun?” You whisper yelled. Scott gave you an incredulous look and you shrugged. You could slightly make out the conversation from where you were in the back but not enough to know what was really going on. 

“That’s Gerard Argent, Alisons grandfather, he’s bad news and well, his family don’t really like that i’m dating his daughter, hence the reason i’m hiding.” Scott was lying. You could tell because the colour of his Aura was all over the place. You narrowed your eyes at him but let it slide. Did you really want to get involved in his love life drama? You think not. 

It seemed like forever, but the goons out the front finally left. Your knees creaked as you got up from the floor…practically a grandma. 

“What did he want?” Deaton looked a bit shaken when he came through. 

“Nothing really, just had questions about Wolves.” 

[teleghostttales]

Friction

Summer Camp, 2014. I was about twelve years old at the time, and having the time of my life. Tromping through the woods, swimming, and playing games. It was a welcome reprieve in a life where I didn’t otherwise get to do much, living in the middle of nowhere and all. It was on a leadership nature hike when they initially found it. It was on an illicit ‘were not technically supposed to go on these trails’ hike when they showed it to us. I don’t remember much before the year 2016, but this is something I remember with perfect clarity.

Deep in the woods behind the summer camp was a single, solitary camper trailer. A clear mark of humanity’s touch on the otherwise pristine forest. It was dilapidated, but it was lived in somewhat recently. Months ago, rather than years based on how dust had collected inside. At least what dust we could see through the spider-web-cracked windows. We didn’t go in. The trip we had taken was already enough to get the leaders in trouble, the last thing they needed was some kid to fall through the floor of the trailer and break an ankle. A classic summer camp thing of liability being an ever-looming threat, even if avoidance of it is still often shirked. 

A good preface for the next part of this story is that I’ve always been a flighty kid. Terrified of everything, fictional or factual. In the fifth grade, my class read The Invention of Hugo Cabret. My fifth-grade teacher was a creative guy, who put together a whole puzzle for us to solve before we started the novel. Everyone loved it. Everyone except for me. I was positively haunted by one set of images included among the others. An illustration of a train crash, and an illustration of a writing automaton. In my head, I formed this narrative that somehow the crashed train and the automaton were connected. That the automaton was some force of evil that had caused it. That the automaton would come for me next. I… had a hard time drawing the line between fiction and reality. I was gullible. You could tell me something was real and I’d hang rapt on every word. I’d believe more than anything. The point of this aside is to say that it got to the point where I was terrified in my own house. I was convinced the automaton had found its way inside. That it was lying in wait for me. That it was going to kill me. This came to a head when my mother asked me to get a can of diced tomatoes out of the pantry. The pantry that connected to the basement. The basement that I was now convinced the automaton had hidden itself away in. I freaked out. Full sobbing panic attack in the kitchen, absolutely refusing to go into the pantry while tearfully recounting to my mother why I couldn’t go in to get the tomatoes. She, immediately, called my teacher and got him to tell me that it wasn’t real. The mystery was just a puzzle he had put together. There was no automaton. There was no train crash. I was safe.

Without that phone call, I would’ve still believed everything my mind had conjured up, every little bit of stress that had manifested itself over the month the project had been introduced. Belief can be a very, very powerful thing.

After letting us poke around the trailer for a bit longer, we made the trek back to camp. It was the night of the sleepout. You could either pick to truly sleep under the stars or on the cement floor of the lodge. I picked the cement floor. I was terrified of being fully exposed outside, wholly convinced that something would come out of the woods and get me. What happened next certainly didn’t help. One of the leaders from the trailer excursion, I think his name was Matt, made his way to the middle of the lodge. Standing amongst the sleeping bags and blanket piles, he told everyone to come in close. Because we picked the lodge, we got something special. A scary story. A true story. One about the trailer, deep in the backwoods, and what the owner of it had done. 

The story never starts with the monster though. This one started with three boys, intent on pranking the girl's side of the camp with some cockamamie scheme. The plan they hatched was simple. There was a well-known patch of land with a small gorge on it, two sheer walls of clay that led down to a stream. They’d travel to it that night, buckets stolen from the maintenance shed in hand, and collect up as much clay as they could carry.  Then, they’d use it to draw and write on the walls of the girl's cabins. How they expected to get away with it and not get saddled with hosing down the siding was beyond me, but that wasn’t the point of the story. In the dead of night, the trio’s plan was put into motion. As soon as their counsellors were asleep they snuck out the door, grabbed the buckets they had stashed behind the cabin, and began their trek out into the dark. Any manner of things could’ve happened in the story then. Attacked by some kind of creature, abducted by aliens, or put under some kind of evil spell, my imagination went wild trying to think of what would happen to them. The answer, in the end, was much simpler. 

They made it safely to their final destination, filling the buckets with clay and navigating down the bank of the stream. 

“What they didn’t know,” Matt said, voice dripping with suspense, “Was that they were a stone’s throw from the trailer. It was a full moon out, and that meant the old man would be home, and there was nothing the old man hated more than trespassers.”

The story continued, the boys growing closer and closer to the trailer, closer and closer to the old man, closer and closer to whatever threat he posed. Closer, until one of them spotted the flickering of a bonfire through the trees. One of the three silently made a decision. Climbing up the steep walls of the bank, he began to journey closer to the flames, intent on investigating their cause. As he reached a small clearing through the trees, he quickly spotted three things in the dark. The campfire he had already seen glimpses of, the dilapidated camper trailer, and finally an old man sitting on a log, a shotgun propped up beside him. The boy stepped closer, trying to see more clearly, but didn’t pay enough attention to where his feet landed. As his boot crushed down, a twig snapped in two.

“WHO GOES THERE!” Bellowed Matt in the best approximation of a crazy old man voice he could muster. “I’LL KILL YOU, I’LL SHOOT YOU DEAD!”

As silly as it is now in my head, I know as a kid I was terrified. The only thing I was scared of more than ghosts, ghouls, or murderers in the night, was loud noises. Even worse, I had an acute fear of jumpscares, so having Matt jump up with such fervour, shouting as loud as he could muster, put a bit of a squeeze on my heart.

The boy ran, of course, the old man in hot pursuit. As he slid down the muddy, clay bank he screamed at the others to run. Gunshots ran out behind them as they sprinted down the creek bank and up into the woods, thundering through the trees as fast as their legs would carry them. It didn’t feel like enough. The further they ran, the closer it felt like the gunshots were behind them. One of them swore a pellet whizzed past his head. Regardless, they kept running, the old man hooting and hollering as his pursuit continued. After what felt like an eternity, the trio broke through the trees, sprinting across the open field to their cabin. They turned for a moment, looking back as their muddy feet hit the porch, watching the treeline for any sign of movement. They didn’t see anything. The old man was gone.

But… so was their friend. What they had thought had been their trio escaping through the woods had at some point become a duo instead. One of them was missing. Far too terrified to do anything, and far too concerned about getting punished, the two boys made their way inside, locking the door behind them. Surely, he would turn up. Surely, everything would be fine. As the two drifted off to sleep, someone broke through the treeline. Someone made their way up onto the porch. Someone turned the knob of the only cabin with a broken lock in the camp. Someone stepped inside, grinning madly in the dark. The remaining duo were none the wiser.

When the morning came, the disaster was realized. When it all became real. Painted across the front of the cabin in the distinct crimson and blood was one distinct phrase. Matt cleared his throat, leaning in close, reciting it as barely a whisper. “Trespassers will be shot.”

That was where the story ended. Matt grinned at us all in the well-lit lodge, cracking his knuckles as he carefully navigated the mess of things spread across the floor. Slyly, he glanced around the room. “I hope none of you are planning on sneaking out tonight. It’s a full moon. The old man could be anywhere.”

It would be one thing if it was just the story. If I had believed that and been told it was only a tall tale. But I had seen the trailer. That cemented it as irrevocably true to me. That terrified me. I told the counsellors I was scared by the story, and all they could offer was insistence it wasn’t true, but my mind had already been made up. The old man was real. The old man was coming to get me.

Regardless, I tried to fall asleep. The doors to the lodge were left open, a measure in case of emergency so people wouldn’t need to fumble for a handle in the dark, or so that anyone who couldn’t sleep outside could migrate in or vice versa. I would not go outside. As soon as I got into my sleeping bag, I wouldn’t move a muscle. I was petrified, eyes screwed shut as I prayed to god that whatever the old man was up to had nothing to do with the campgrounds.

And then the clinking started. The small, tinny sound of metal tapping against metal. Clink. Clink. Clink. Over and over again, each noise, no matter how small, sent me into a new wave of terror. My brain quickly conjured a terrifying explanation. It was a taunt. It was the old man tapping the barrel of his shotgun against the flagpole. It was the old man telling me I was next. Telling me that I, like any other trespasser, would be shot.

I don’t know how long I laid awake, eyes shut tight as I tried to will myself to sleep despite my intense, all-consuming fear of what I was convinced was just outside the lodge. Eventually, I did fall asleep, and, as was likely expected, nothing happened. I woke up fine. No words were written on the walls in blood. No old man had come to shoot me in the night. I even figured out the source of the clinking, it was the hook for the flag not properly tied down, smacking against the flagpole every time the wind gusted. Everything pointed to the old man being a farce, and yet… my mind held on. Convinced me I had simply gotten lucky. Every year I went to the camp I was terrified, but… every year that terror reduced. It was around 2018 when I became a leader myself, allowed on all the trips banned for campers, joining in on all the treks and events in the night. I had almost entirely forgotten about the old man. I had certainly stopped believing in him at that point. But… things don’t stay forgotten for long, and one afternoon when we were off-duty, we navigated the woods to the trailer. This time, I got the chance to step inside.

It was more dilapidated than I remembered it, but at the same time… significantly more innocuous. It was just an abandoned trailer full of someone’s discarded junk, something only shown more as I got the chance to explore the insides myself. Many stories have been told about the place over the years. It was the base of a satanic cult. It was the hideaway of a serial killer. It was the den of the old man. They had found briefcases of human skin, torture implements, or other signs of nefarious deeds. But… none of that was real to me anymore, especially not after seeing it in all its lack of glory. It was simply a camper trailer in the woods. We moved on quickly with our day, as though we hadn’t visited the almost-sacred place in the lore of the camp. The next day, the final nature hike group got to visit it too, observing it from the outside alone. Knowing I had once been in their shoes… was an odd feeling. It put it all into perspective, how ridiculous all my childhood fears had been. 

And then came the sleepout. A full moon, just like mine had been. They asked me to tell the story this time around, and I was happy to oblige. I was much more of a horror fan now, even if I still couldn’t stomach Halloween past the opening credits yet. I told the story as best as I remembered it, pausing for a moment towards the end, a grin growing on my face as I chose to add my embellishment.

“And if you hear a noise at night, a steady clink, clink, clink…” I told them all, watching their wide eyes somehow grow wider. “It’s best if you stay very, very still. He’s trying to draw out the ones who are the most scared. The ones who will try to run.”

It felt right. Attaching a piece of myself to the story that had haunted me for several years, especially attaching a piece that felt entirely connected to the story. My fear would not have been the same without that steady clinking, and thus… it felt integral. I made one simple mistake that night. I thought I had stopped believing. Thought it didn’t have power over me anymore. Thought it was all just a grim, twisted little story some shit-head seventeen-year-old had cooked up. 

I was wrong.

It was around midnight. All the leaders were still awake, sitting in the gazebo and keeping watch over the doors to the lodge and the kids in the field. Some of them were smoking, and given the fact I couldn’t stand the smell of cigarette smoke, I wandered off. I don’t know what drew me there. Down to the creek, following its flow until I reached the trailer once more, but going there was my second mistake and my greatest. I saw it then through the trees. The tell-tale signs of a campfire. Against my better judgment, I moved closer. I saw him there, the old man with his shotgun, and I couldn’t help the fearful noise that escaped me. Just like the story, he lept to action. Just like the story, I sprinted through the woods. Just like the story, I felt like the old man was mere feet behind me, practically stepping on my heels.

Just like the story, I broke through the tree line. I didn’t stop running until I reached the lodge, situating myself in the furthest corner. I heard it then, as I had heard it all those years ago. Clink. Clink. Clink. Once more, my good sense failed me, and carefully I crept to the window of the lodge.

What I saw there… wasn’t an old man. It wasn’t anything I could recognize, but I knew it was what had pursued at me. It grinned in the darkness, one hand gripping the flag hook, tapping it against the pole. I locked eyes with the thing, before quickly making my way back to my corner. I had no clue what it was. I still don’t have any idea, but I know it is evil, and I know it wanted me.

It didn’t come for me that night. It didn’t come for anyone. I was left wondering if I imagined it all. If it had been some kind of realistic dream, a fear-induced hallucination, or something else. I would never know. I would never have any intent of finding out. I was perfectly happy never returning to that summer camp again and I ensured I didn’t. I remember the trailer. I remember the story. Most of all, I remember that pallid, thin thing staring at me in the dark, grinning like it knew something I didn’t. Like it had some trick up its sleeve. The only thing I know for certain is I will never see that thing again, not if I can do anything about it. If you ask me, they should burn that trailer down, stop the sleep-out, and never, ever share the story.

But people rarely ask me. And even more rarely do they take my advice.

[xprojectrpg]

Moment of Awesome - Gabriel Cohuelo/Velocidad: During their mission in Spain, Velocidad and Marrow do their best to collect intel.

Gabe made a vague noise of assent. He picked up the cards and, using his powers, he flipped through them, sorting them by some mental order he couldn't really begin to explain into two equal piles. "Here," he said after he slowed down, handing her a bunch of cards.

He looked down at the card on top of his own stack and sighed. "Ugh. I guess it makes sense to start with SHIELD."

Sarah shook her head. "Well my contact there was full of shit, and I ended up with a flight manifest that expected me to believe that 'Project Bork Bork' was a mission investigating dog anomalies in Sweden. You have anybody better?"

"I dunno." He knew. Abigail Brand immediately flashed to mind; she certainly owed him a favor. Or forty. But he couldn't face her, not yet, and he was sure he could find other ways in. "Oh, yes, wait." He brightened, shuffling through the cards. "This guy's good." He pulled him out. "Sydney gave me a ton of contacts in and around the Med to start, and Javier's got eyes and ears all over Spain and Portugal. He speaks Spain Spanish and has the gall to make fun of my accent, but if it's some weird separatist shit, he'll probably know about it."

Gabe reached for his phone, scrolling through his contacts. "Let me give him a call..." He hit a button and sighed, his posture changing. "Hola, Javier," he said, and then began chattering away in Spanish.

Sarah flipped back through the cards while he talked, pulling two from the stack. These would likely need in person visits. Crime families she could do, though she suspected nobody was going to cause shit this close to Mama Bareste's birthday. Somebody was throwing a big party in Italy and everyone was invited. They loved a good party. She would ask Artie to do her a favor and see if anybody left the Morlocks with a chip on their shoulder recently. Maybe someone would recognize abilities or something. After Gabe hung up the phone, she held up another card. "Hell's Belles? You think they would let me join?"

"Probably," Gabe said with a shrug, trading his phone for his stack of note cards. "You seem the type," he added as he flipped through, pulling a few cards out of the stack. "Which I mean as a compliment, obviously"

He tossed the cards he'd withdrawn aside. "Javi knows nothing," he said by way of explanation. "Like, not a whisper, not a rumor. Which is concerning." He drummed his fingers on the table. "When you talked to SHIELD, they didn't — like..." He wasn't sure why he was hesitating, but the idea he'd had made him uneasy. "Did we rule out the Brotherhood?"

Sarah was still getting a feel for the regular suspects, but this seemed different. "Aren't they usually a little more vocal than this? Someone would be manifesto-ing all over the place if it were Brotherhood, right?"

"Yeah, but..." Gabriel wasn't sure what he wanted to say, exactly. "I guess. But we have to check all the leads, right?"

Sarah shuffled back through the index cards. "Here's another contact for SHIELD. They don't know me, but surely my glowing personality will win them over."

"I don't doubt it." Gabriel replied, not meaning to sound quite as dry as he did. He tried to soften his features a bit. "I'll make my way through the rest of my stack. Even though I hate operating on other people's conversational time. It takes forever."

He sighed, then cracked his knuckles. "Okay. Let's get to it."

[titles-for-tangents]

Joe Farrell Sometimes Has  Supernatural Shenanigans Happen to Him

With not just one but two excellent collections of Peter S. Beagle’s works coming out, it occurred to me some of his novels and short stories take place in the same universe and sometimes feature the same characters, but I hadn’t really seen an online list yet of what order they’re supposed to occur in chronologically. I came to reading his stories in perhaps the right order for me to be introduced to them but also completely ass-backwards. Sometimes, between my scattered short story collections, years of life happening, and rare library hauls, I’d remember that some of these characters had names that sounded vaguely familiar. I don’t own everything he’s ever published, robust as my collection is at this point, so if I make an error or learn of a new story that came out, then I will edit my list here. This will be a Part I, and I will make a Part II for the world of The Last Unicorn under the same idea (wish me luck).

Beagle takes titling his stories seriously, and his ongoing adventures of Joe Farrell have no real umbrella title that I’m aware of. Perhaps they will get one and their own book collection one day. So without further ado (and more for my past, dumbass, novice self):

Lila the Werewolf - Lila Braun is one of Farrell’s first girlfriends as a young adult. It doesn’t go well. Takes place in New York City. First published 1974 and has seen only a few reprintings since then (The Fantasy Worlds of Peter S. Beagle, Mirror Kingdoms, will be included in The Essential Peter S. Beagle, Volume 1). First appearance of Farrell’s best childhood friend Ben Kassoy.

The Folk of the Air - Farrell returns to Avicenna, California after having been away for a number of years and finds Ben, who also now lives in Avicenna, has both become a professor AND lives with an older woman named Sia. Sia lives in a nice, old house that just so happens to be a casual walk in the House of Leaves park, and sometimes she has goddess-tier powers. Seems to take place in the 1970s; is also the first introduction to Farrell’s longtime girlfriend with latent magic powers, Julie Tanikawa, and Farrell’s ancient Volkswagon bus, Madame Schumann-Heink. Farrell, Julie, and Ben get mixed up in the League for Archaic Pleasures where they playact at medieval chivalry, but sometimes the cosplay gets a little too real and reality starts to bend a bit. Your boyfriend’s shit, Aiffe, SHIT! Published 1986. Beagle notes in Mirror Kingdoms this one took eighteen years and four separate versions to write, and in We Don’t Talk About My Brother he describes Avicenna as a “shadow-Berkeley”. Note: this is the only entry here that’s never been properly reprinted to my knowledge. If you want to read this, you’re going to have to check if your local library has a copy or buy it second-hand. If Beagle’s Wikipedia page is to be believed, he’s currently rewriting it for an expanded re-new release. Hell yeah! Whatever happens in between here and the next entry, I’ve yet to find out.

Julie’s Unicorn (short story) - more than twenty years have passed between Farrell and Julie’s relationship “of picking up, letting go and picking up again.” Easily the sweetest of the four tales. Takes place in Avicenna and Farrell’s hair has gone grey by this point while working as a respected sous chef. Julie has a fantastic name for her black and white cat, “NMC”, short for “Not My Cat”, and somehow Madame Schumann-Heink has survived into the millennial age. I’m actually not certain when this was first published, but I first saw it in print in 2010′s Mirror Kingdoms, and it was later included in 2011′s The Urban Fantasy Anthology. Have you ever been so moved by a work of art it just makes you both heartbroken and fucking livid? Have you ever been so stirred by how well an artist captured their subject that you just needed to do something about it? Julie Tanikawa’s powers don’t always manifest, BUT WHEN THEY DO-

Spook - Takes place about five years later also in Avicenna (North Avicenna to be exact). Farrell and Julie have just moved in together into a loft and Ben heads up from Los Angeles to help them move in. Turns out the loft is haunted by a previous resident in the silliest way possible, and it sure as hell wants Farrell out. Farrell and Ben employ an old acquaintance to help with deciphering what to do about it, and Farrell has the idea to challenge it to a duel. The weapons of choice? Bad poetry. Bad poetry. It’s ridiculous and fun as fuck. First published in a 2008 3-story collection called Strange Roads and reprinted in 2009′s We Don’t Talk About My Brother. Beagle says he looked forward to recording an audiobook version, but I’ve not found any evidence that it exists, especially not post-Connor Cohran. Will be reprinted in The Essential Peter S. Beagle, Volume I and no audiobook is listed yet.  One of the nice things about these stories is that Farrell is such an ordinary dude, and yet he is alarmingly well educated in medieval music, mythology, and far more across that board. Farrell just owns a lute and knows how to play it, for example, and he can take any piece of classical music and arrange it for his lute. Farrell can be the best kind of pedant and is remarkably accepting and empathetic of other people and their situations, supernatural or no. And for as much as he tries to keep his head down and out of other people’s business, when their business comes knocking he’s thoughtful about where they’re coming from and just does his best to deal. Beagle also shines here in his knowledge of what people are like as they age and even though marriage in the traditional sense may not be the best fit for them, remaining life partners still is. I found Lila the Werewolf the toughest read, as it’s about toxic relationships with no easy answer, and Julie’s Unicorn easily the sweetest tale of the lot. The Folk of the Air takes a little while to get into, but once it gets going it keeps up that steam and all the characterization is handled memorably well. Spook is by far the most fun and we even get a little backstory into how Farrell and Julie met. Beagle tends to know when to come back to and touch base with characters he’s not quite done with yet, so if he ever writes more of what’s going on in the world of Joe Farrell it’s bound to be an entertaining ride.

[storiesaboutrachelcarolann]

Are you wondering what peace is? Are you wondering if it can be felt? Are you wondering if we can see it? Can we touch it and wrap our arms around it? I have been trying to answer those very questions myself lately. It's not something we can accomplish or fulfill overnight it takes years and even beyond that honestly to even grasp a little bit of the notion if our experiences have led us to believe peace isn't attainable.

Peace is freedom from disturbance; tranquility. Tranquility is the quality or state of being tranquil; calm. Oh, what joy that would be if we could all remain calm each and every day. Life has been all over the place, especially in the last few years. Disaster has struck in most of our lives.

This may seem a little off track, but go grab your Bible and turn to Revelations. Read it from start to finish. Sure there are different versions of the Bible rewritten over time with slant variances to what some scriptures translate to mean given the original text was in a different language. Yet, the text that is written in that chapter is very apparent to what is happening on this earth in this present time. I am not trying to scare you, but if this testament is true then God is coming sooner than you and I may think or be ready for. What does that mean you should do? You guessed it.. seek peace.

How can we as a collective work together to attain and restore peace? For most of us this is all we have ever desired in life. I am now discovering that if I can manage to keep my faith and belief strong in God/Source/Spirit and understand the power that is held by God, then I can and will accomplish everything that I ever set out to succeed in for the rest of my life by keeping him with me. Time is short here on this earthly plane, we all know this to be true. There never seems to be enough time in one day. Yet, I feel we can extend that time with personal achievement. We can make each day have more value if we can remain close to Spirit by listening, feeling, thinking, or doing whatever it is you have to do next that manifests good things, like peace and love.

I have found that since I opened up the way I used to look at different situations in life, that those different perspectives have allowed me to see more truths. Not a one sided or narrow view that we can easily maintain if we don't step out of our comfort zone. We each have a different way of viewing the world and others as well as our own way of explaining. In our perspective nothing is false it is all true, but is it?

In my opinion, if you're finding yourself in what feels like catastrophic tower-like moments, then perhaps that is a bold sign you need to change something in your life or your perspectives and you aren't listening to God/Source/Spirit. It is very likely a sign that you will need to remove yourself from a distorted sense of reality if you really want anything to change in the near future.

If you need to take a step back or take time to yourself to gain a new perspective don't be afraid to ask for protection and guidance. You will be amazed at what comes forth. You are protected and may not even realize it. You have a protective shell. In other words each of have a shell or shield that is made of iron, when we ask for protection and guidance nothing that is bad for us will penetrate it. You will be safe. You will find comfort and warmth from the coldest storms in that shell or shield. It has to be your will though..it is never forced. We were given free will to make up our own mind on the path we choose here and beyond.

While we are in what feels like darkness we learn how to change and transform the darkness into light. We are provided tools. Powerful tools. We learn to appreciate all the battles and challenges that have been formed thus far on our journey. We owe them thanks really. If they hadn't of happened you wouldn't have looked for a new perspective that provided a soft place to fall or protection from the next storm. I know it feels lonely and isolating sometimes and this causes anxiety and worry. That's normal when we have fear. Remember in order to find the peace you're looking for it's important for you to seek love and understanding, its important to not fear. Seek and you shall find. I promise.

Being in the comfort of my own shell and forced by injury has asked me to pause and pace myself it's really allowed me as an individual to narrow in on the parts of myself that have been damaged, so I can fix them piece by piece and not ignore them any longer. I know my journey towards peace; tranquility is not done yet and it likely never will be fully finished, but that's okay. I am not afraid to put in the work that'll allow me to connect spiritually with our savior (God), so I am able to continue to learn what peace is all about.

Peace to me is a feeling of wholeness so far, that might change a little bit as I continue towards embracing myself. I love allowing light into any darkness I face. It's amazing to really see how protected we are. Darkness will not go where there's light. Light (peace) drives out the darkness, the black fog and replaces it with better days ahead.

You can have better! A better sense of peace and strength to face whatever storm comes. Believe in yourself and trust you're never really alone. Often I wonder what is it that has got me so far along this journey. A path towards fullness, contentment, freedom of my mind, my heart, my soul; all of me. I know now it is the ability to do what's being asked of me and to never give up when it's extremely difficult. We are never given something we can't handle and yes there are times it gets harder before it gets better. How else do we learn what really matters and what we are really made of if we never faced an Earthly or Spiritual battle?

Rachel Smith

The Coastline Intuitive

The Empress

[radioiaci]

Valentino.

A name to put to this ridiculous line of questioning that was making Alastor seethe the longer Rosie continued to explain. He knew his anger was misdirected, in the moment, and he bit back his desire to snap. It made little sense to prey on Rosie - his wife - and her evident insecurities.

He realized, all at once, that his desire to do so would have made him much more akin to his father than he would have ever dared to venture.

That thought alone was sobering enough to get him to settle, reaching up with a hand to pinch lightly at the bridge of his nose to measure his temper and try to provide... some semblance of reassurance. In... whatever way he were able to. In truth, Alastor did not think that whatever he could say; whatever he could do within his power - would be enough. Not with the snare around his throat tightening by the day. If he dared to abandon the hotel and the princess to chase his own desire... There was nothing that kept her from wrenching him back into his place.

And yet he could not tell Rosie any of that. Not his fears, nor doubts, nor restrictions.

Perhaps it was better for her to allow her resentment to breed. Maybe then she would be eager to undo the whole thing for her own sake.

Tilted and wrong. Had he ever been anything else?

"What happened between Vox and I was different," he began, his voice low and intentional. "Our paths took us in opposing directions. There was nothing there to salvage. Valentino does not know the entirety of the story, though I'm certain he will try to convince you of such."

His nose wrinkled - the moth demon had always been a thorn.

"While the hotel is... more than merely a passing fancy -" even the utterance of that much had him feeling as though he were forming a noose around his own neck. "-you and your cannibals are not meaningless. I trusted you to assemble capable individuals for the defense of the hotel against the exorcists, and you did that in stellar fashion. While I cannot make amends for not finding the courage to come to you after the battle to offer condolences for those who were lost, it was not because I thought them to be merely pawns. They may not hold meaning for me as individuals, but they do as a collective, simply because they mean something to you."

He did not know if that was as reassuring as he'd like it to be, but it was what he could manifest from his off-kilter thoughts. Rosie had known him for a long while now - if she could not discern his real intent and meaning from it all... Then perhaps she had not known him as well as he'd assumed.

[ x ]

"When I agreed to marry you, it was because I knew it meant something to you in similar fashion. A capable groom and husband is not something I have ever advertised myself as, and it is not something I believe I can be for you at all times." Alastor's eyes shifted elsewhere at the final two words of that sentence. It was not never.

"But you do mean something to me. In the way that one is... capable of meaning something to me. I have never been... correct in how that is expressed. Or in how I... carry it on my person. That is just my nature and how it has always been. Even before I was thrust down here for my own hubris."

Holding himself upright, the radio demon would not bring himself down to his knees. He had too much pride; too much ego. An after-life spent in his own sin kept him from prostrating himself, even before his dearest friend and confidante. But he did turn away, briefly. Part of him did not want to see her expression.

The impending disappointment would have felt too much like the looks his own mother gave him before the end.

The looks that Vox gave him.

"...If that is not enough for you - or will never be enough - then I understand. I will not ask you to sacrifice what makes you happy and what makes you you in order to better meet me in my own gnarled and tangled conception of this forsaken plane of existence."

His shoulders hunched, somewhat. Feeling the creep of that finality he had grown so accustomed to.

Like a death knell.

The bell rung when Vox had turned him away for the final time at the ball.

"Either way, dear Rosie, you have been a shelter in my times of need. And for that you have my gratitude.

...Whether you decide to walk away or not."

Not exactly the answer she was looking for but she supposed he had a right to know as to where her questioning came from. It did sound a bit out of left field for her to make such an inquiry to question where his loyalties lied.

"I admit..it may be a bit of both. After the latest Overlord meeting, I was pulled aside and escorted home by Valentino. He was oddly acting like a gentleman for a short while until I found out why he was acting the way he was." She shifted in her footing, watching Alastor carefully. "He questioned by relationship with you and whether or not I was foolish to think that trusting you was a good idea. Comparing my current relationship with you to the one you had with Vox..and how I am bound to end up like him if I were to trust you with my feelings. In addition to that, he mentioned that my cannibals and I are only tools for you at your disposal. I was dared, should I have the nerve, to ask you if you could choose me or the hotel, that you would always choose them over me." Rosie held an arm behind her back, "A part of me understands if you were to do so. Working with Charlie has been a fancy of yours since you came back but, there is a small..jealous part of me, that hopes that isn't so. We were close friends before that hotel was formed and though we were married after the fact, I can't help but wonder if all those years together were meaningless.

Am I meaningless to you? A disposable tool for you to discard when my use is through?" That seed of doubt Valentino planted in her mind after their chat sure went deep.