#God's Last Message Unveiled

[tojisun]

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZT8tQfwXt/

this with biker!simon 🤭 the way he just melts omg

OH MY GOD I YELLED

nono fr omg the way he melted as soon as he heard it and the way he literally looks like hes about to lose his mind on the highway??? SCREAMING

!! suggestive - minors dni; sexting ig // biker!simon mlist

thinking about how this isn’t really something you’d usually send—you’re so used to his friends snooping on his phone so of course you two have to be careful. discreet.

but.

it’s been a while since you two have done anything more than rushed make out kisses. even the last time you two tried to squeeze a quickie, it was still, somehow, interrupted by your conflicting schedules.

you’ve tried to hold onto your patience. tried holding back even when all you wanted to do was jump simon because there he always is, beautiful and hot and just overall so goddamn attractive, it should be illegal to be that good looking.

but it’s been a while now. and you’ve missed him dearly.

it didn’t help that his last meet was all over social media, getting mixed into edits because of fucking course he is a tiktok edit now. you really can’t blame anyone—you were there, after all.

you’ve seen, first hand, the way he unveiled his new shop project before pairing up with that guy who you all still call konig. god knows what his name is but honestly you’re not even curious anymore. not when simon stole the goddamn show. again.

then the asshole had the audacity to point at you, black leather gloves stark against all the flashing cameras, and you watched as he made a little fucking heart with his hands. if the cameras weren’t going ham on simon then, they sure were after that little flirty stunt.

you felt yourself be engulfed in flames so, yeah. you really can’t blame anyone for sharing every pictures and videos they have of simon that day all over the internet.

still, somehow, you want to monopolize him. possess him.

and, if you’re not blaming anyone for sharing every sliver of simon’s meet, well, you hope no one can also blame you for what you’re about to do.

-

simon grunts as he finishes rounding a corner and begins easing into the highway. he rights himself up and blazes past the straggling sedans to get into the thick stretch of the road.

it’s not too windy today but dusk is breaking out and simon’s just glad he’s finally en route to your place. it’s been a long day and gods he’s missed you.

he gets the notification a few minutes in.

“hey, baby,” your message starts. “i missed you.” there’s a pause. “i’m wearing that lingerie you’ve always liked, you know the blue little thing? i forgot how lace feels since it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

simon’s breath is suspended in the pathway through his lungs, his eyes going wide as your words draw on. not even siri’s robotic voice can shake away simon’s thoughts—the vivid imagination of coming home to see you in that lace bralette and panties and—he grips the hand clutch tighter—the matching lace choker it came with.

fuck-

“might start without you, lover boy. so drive home—to me—safe, okay? see you soon, baby. love you.”

fuuuck.

simon books it home.

AAAAHHHH SCREAMINNN no bc this is me w simon!!

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 29: A Lonely Kind of Love

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

A heat like the heart of a forge hits you the moment you and Astarion step into Abriymoch. You have only just left the damp, winding path from the docks, and the sheer force of the air feels as if it's peeling skin from your bones. Lava channels flow through the city like rivers, casting the whole scene in hues of molten orange and blood-red, illuminating spiked towers and looming stone buildings that twist into the sky, defying the usual laws of architecture.

The infernal city's streets aren’t paved in any mortal sense; rather, they are formed from slabs of obsidian glass that seem to pool and swirl with trapped embers. Buildings jut upwards in chaotic patterns, each tower sharper and more foreboding than the last, resembling the jagged ridges of a dragon's spine. Some structures even seem to change form as you pass, shifting with an unsettling, organic movement.

“Gods, I thought the stench back there was bad,” Astarion mutters, nose wrinkling as he studies the surrounding city. 

You cast a sidelong glance at him, suppressing a smirk. “Don’t breathe, idiot.” “Oh, ha-ha,” he snorts, lips curling into a thin sneer. “Keep it up, and I might just compel you to keep breathing.” 

Despite his ability to control his body temperature, he’s faring no better in the blistering heat, though he tries to disguise it with a flick of his hair. Abriymoch’s infernal heat respects no living or unliving boundary.

Wretched souls in ragged garb dot the streets—infernal traders, chained demons, fiendish guards with iron-tipped spears—all eyeing you with a mixture of envy, greed, and unconcealed disgust. It’s a treacherous place to show weakness, and Astarion must realize this too, standing straighter, the faintest smirk in place as he glances around, daring any nearby demon to come closer.

Overhead, shadows flit between the towers—winged devils, their leathery wings casting distorted shapes across the ground, watching for those who wander without the protection of an archdevil’s favour. You know without question: a lone vampire and a defiant spawn mean nothing to them. 

This is a realm of dominance, power, of owed debts, and endless torment. Your own step grows more deliberate, calculating, each movement a message that you, too, will bite back.

Somewhere in the distance, you hear the clang of metal—an infernal forge where armour and cursed weapons are crafted, honed to wicked edges. The air smells of sulphur and scorched iron, searing your throat with each breath, and there’s a lingering undercurrent of burnt flesh, nauseating in its familiarity. 

Astarion’s fingers dig into your chin, his grip like iron, holding you still as his gaze bores into yours. There’s no warmth in his eyes, no hint of his usual smug amusement or lazy disdain; they’re as unyielding as the glassy obsidian streets underfoot.

“You will stay beside me. At all times. And you will do exactly as I say. No wandering, no disappearing acts, no ridiculous attempts to prove yourself clever,” he hisses venomously. “If you decide otherwise, I won’t hesitate to compel you to crawl after me like a mindless, obedient dog.” He leans in closer, and his lips screw in a mocking smile. “Perhaps I’ll even put a collar around that pretty neck of yours. Might suit you, don’t you think?”

The urge to spit right in his smug, pale face is almost overpowering—to tear yourself from his grip and tell him he can take his collar and shove it right up his unholy ass. Your hands clench at your sides, muscles taut as you weigh the risks of indulging in defiance here and now.

The rage in your gut revolves, but when you meet his eyes—those red, deadly eyes that glitter with a hard, humourless glint—it plummets. You know this look. He’s not bluffing. He’s dropped the pretence of play, the little game of back-and-forth he so often delights in. His words aren’t taunts, and the threat in his tone isn’t empty. The Hells themselves could quake, and he’d still enforce this command.

The weight of his seriousness settles over you like a second skin. A second ago, this felt like another of his games, another attempt to goad or humiliate, but under his searing grip, the illusion shatters. This isn’t a suggestion, a tease, or even a warning; this is a promise. Worse yet, you believe it. From all his coldness, his cruelty, you know he’s absolutely ruthless when he wants something—and what he wants now is obedience.

You swallow your retort, forcing your expression into something neutral. There’s no point in snapping back now, no sense in testing him here, not in this place where every flicker of power is weighed and measured. As infuriating as it is, he’s right about one thing: this isn’t a city where foolish risks go unpunished. It’s a place where even devils tread carefully, where a single misstep can mean the difference between life and eternity in chains. There will be time enough later for defiance, but for now, you force your spine to soften, if only slightly.

Sensing your shift, Astarion’s lips curl, and his fingers loosen just a fraction. Satisfaction is written in every line of his posture, like that of a predator who’s just secured his prey.

“That’s my very good girl,” he hums indulgently, as though savouring the words. “Do try to keep it up.”

For a moment, he lets his gaze linger on you, a silent reminder of who holds the leash here, who holds the power, before turning his attention back to the city. A surge of bitterness rises in you, mingling with the heat of Abriymoch, and it takes everything in you not to let it show on your face. As he turns to lead the way, you fall in line behind him, the roiling fury inside you tempered, for now, by the glimmer of an idea—a reminder that even a tethered dog can bite back when the time is right.

Astarion casts a dry look over the cityscape. ”First things first, we need an inn.”

You fold your arms, arching a brow at him. “How exactly do you plan to pay for that with the pocket change we have?”

He laughs mockingly, his eyes glinting with dark humour. "Oh, I’m sure we can scrounge up something. This place thrives on desperate souls and eager appetites—there must be someone willing to trade a bed for... services.”

You roll your eyes, exasperated. “That’s your brilliant plan? Offer yourself up as some devil’s plaything?”

“Please.” He scoffs, though the smirk never leaves his face. “Why would I do that when I have you? I'm sure there’s more than one fiend here who would pay handsomely for the privilege.”

Astarion’s words land like a lash. His cavalier tone slicing through any illusion of protection or affection. The callousness in his expression is cripplingly haunting, underlined by a strange, calculating amusement that sets your teeth on edge.

"Come now, pet. You must admit it’s practical. A handful of devils with deep enough pockets and a taste for something... exotic.” He pauses, giving you a long, appraising look as though he’s already stripping you down to what’s saleable. “I bet they would pay dearly for a night with you.”

You force yourself to laugh, but it feels threadbare. The kind of laugh that frays at the edges concealing unease you’re sure he’s perceptive enough to catch. “Oh, is that the great plan, then?” you retort, keeping your tone light. “Auction me off to the highest bidder and let them chew on whatever’s left?”

Astarion’s grin widens, and for a terrifying moment, you’re not entirely sure if he’s joking. His hand lifts to brush an imaginary speck of dirt from your shoulder; the touch is proprietary and unsettlingly gentle. “We all have to make sacrifices, love,” he purrs, as though he’s offering you a slice of cake rather than dangling you in front of infernal beasts with ravenous desires. “Think of it as a little... philanthropic effort. We could even call it a charitable contribution to my own comfort.”

His amusement only deepens as he reads the flash of defiance in your eyes. You want to tell him he can go to the deepest, bleakest pits of the Hells and fucking burn, that you’d rather die than become some devil’s toy, but that retort dies as you catch the glint in his glare—a challenge, maybe, but more likely an examination of how far you’re willing to bend.

Would he go through with it? You swallow, the idea lodging like a thorn in your throat. Once, his possessive streak over you would have offered some twisted assurance that he wouldn’t want anyone else touching you, let alone parading you as some high-priced harlot, but with this version of him, certainty is a slippery concept.

“You really are an insufferable bastard,” you growl, pushing away the tendrils of dread. Forcing your voice to stay steady, you add, “But I don’t come cheap, Astarion. If you want me whored out to the nearest devil, you’d better set the price high.”

His laugh is deep and indulgent. “Is that so? My, aren’t we ambitious?" He raises a brow, his smirk twisting into something more predatory, more satisfied. “Well, my dear, rest assured—if I were to rent you out, I would expect a small fortune. You are, after all, mine.”

The simple declaration curls around you, both a shield and a shackle, a reminder that he sees you as something that belongs to him. A tool, a weapon, perhaps an amusement, but ultimately his to do with as he pleases. It’s as comforting as it is constricting, and the ambivalence only adds weight to the silence that follows.

Finally, Astarion releases you from his scrutiny. “Now, let’s find an inn. Somewhere discreet, where we’re less likely to draw the wrong kind of attention.”

He starts down the street, and you fall in step beside him, your mind swirling with the ramifications of his taunts. You almost laugh at its absurdity. Profit? In the Hells, where trust is currency and souls are bartered like shiny baubles? He’s not even joking anymore, just striding forward with that unsettling confidence as if he’s already solved the mystery, cracked the riddle, and found a way to make even this damnable place work to his advantage.

As you follow him through the winding streets of Abriymoch, your eyes dart to the twisted architecture, all slick stone and towers that seem to lean inwards as if hungry for the souls wandering below.

Astarion, however, is the picture of composure, his posture almost regal despite the grime and blood spattering his clothes. It’s as if he belongs here in some twisted way, a dark prince waltzing through his own personal hellscape. You almost envy him for his ease, though a part of you suspects it is more façade than fact.

Finally, he pauses, casting his attention to what could only loosely be described as an inn—a dilapidated structure with crooked walls and a half-burnt sign. The sounds of drunken brawls drift through its walls, punctuated by caustic laughter and the occasional scream.

“Charming,” you mutter, wrinkling your nose as a gust of foul-smelling air drifts out from the doorway. 

“Oh, don’t be so picky,” he scolds. “It has everything we need: walls, a roof, and, I suspect, a clientele with equally low standards. You’ll fit right in.”

You give him a withering look, but he only shoots you a fanged grin. With a grand, sarcastic flourish, he gestures toward the entrance. “After you, my dear,” he ushers as his hand lingers at the small of your back, guiding you forward. “Try not to be too shocked if they’re not quite up to your high standards.”

Swallowing your irritation, you step inside, trying to ignore the way the floor squelches beneath your steps, the stares from sallow-skinned demons and skeletal fiends who evaluate you both with unsettling intensity. Astarion sweeps past you, greeting the hostile stares with an arrogant smirk, his hand still firmly and possessively on your back.

As expected, the innkeeper of this forsaken place is more fiend than humanoid, with infernal red skin stretched taut over an angular frame. His eyes are sunk deep into his skull, giving him a permanent look of disapproval, while cracked horns rise from his temples and curve back like those of a ram. He watches your arrival with a leer that drips disdain as though the mere sight of you both taints the already miserable atmosphere of his establishment.

Astarion spares you a warning glance, subtle but firm, that says all you need to know: keep your mouth shut and let him handle this. You almost snort, half tempted to put his so-called charm to the test, but you catch yourself, rolling your eyes instead. You know he’s clever enough, but you’d be lying if you didn’t think your own persuasion might do better.

With an ease born of arrogance, Astarion approaches the innkeeper, his posture equal parts relaxed and commanding. He lets his leer linger on the fiend, sizing him up with an amused sort of contempt, before giving a small, charming smile that does nothing to soften his sharp expression.

“We need a room, and we’re in no mood to haggle with some... lesser devil.” He lets the insult sit in the air just long enough, and the innkeeper’s lips curl back to reveal rows of wickedly pointed teeth. “What’s the rate for a night?” Astarion asks, voice deceptively polite but with an edge that warns against any attempt to upcharge him.

The innkeeper sneers, all teeth and malice, clearly unimpressed by Astarion’s bravado. “It depends. You paying in gold? Or… other methods?”

Astarion raises a brow, unfazed. “Gold, for now. Though I’m sure someone here must appreciate... finer pleasures.” 

His gaze flicks over to you in a way that’s both casual and pointed, a calculated gesture that sells whatever story he’s trying to spin. It’s maddening to let him take control like this, but the innkeeper’s reaction is one of grudging interest, so you play along, keeping your expression aloof and unbothered.

“A week’s stay,” Astarion continues, “and I expect it to be free of... disruptions. I doubt you want a scene if anyone happens to disturb us.”

The innkeeper’s stare wavers momentarily, recognizing the thinly veiled threat, but he gives a shallow nod, his grin returning with something akin to reluctant respect. “Very well, if you can pay what’s owed by the end of the week.”

“Agreed,” Astarion says smoothly, not missing a beat.

The room is up a set of broken stairs with makeshift ramps between missing sections where lava flows after a drop that would be just long enough for you to be able to contemplate your impending doom. It makes you shudder and twist your fingers into the back of Astarion's coat. If you fall, you're godsdamned taking him with you. Astarion twists at the waist, glancing down with a chuckle and an eye roll, but doesn't comment further. The hallway to your room is deceptively long, with stone doors that line the corridor. 

You step into the room and immediately appraise its condition, or rather, the lack of it. The bed is laughably small, sagging in the middle like it’s been trampled under the weight of more than just tired bodies. The sheets are a questionable shade somewhere between grey and despair, and the mattress itself looks like it could disintegrate under a strong glare. The pillow is barely thicker than a folded shirt, the kind you’d toss aside rather than sleep on.

Your eyes flit to the narrow tub against the far wall, and relief washes over you. It’s chipped around the edges, rust creeping up in spots like rot on an apple, but it’s still serviceable. Water, no matter how murky, will be a mercy. You’re caked in dried blood and dust, skin itching with every move; the idea of soaking even for a few minutes seems like salvation.

Then there’s the floor: rough-hewn stone scattered with something that might once have been straw or possibly hay—more likely mould. You scoff, casting a final glance around the room that’s hardly fit to host the vermin you’re sure are lurking somewhere nearby.

Astarion sprawls across the bed, taking up every possible inch with an exaggerated sense of importance. His limbs drape in lazy elegance; his expression painted with a derision so rich you can practically taste it. He looks at you, eyes flicking down and back up, with disdain so theatrical it’s almost funny. “Well,” he drawls, smirking, “this bed is a marvel of economy, isn’t it? Such a pity—it will never fit both of us. A tragic oversight, really.”

You narrow your eyes, already predicting his angle, and snap, “If you think for a second I’m sleeping on the godsdamned floor, you’re madder than I thought.”

His eyebrow arches, and he points a slender, careless finger toward the floor as if addressing a particularly insolent child. “That is precisely what I think, darling. You should be grateful I’m even allowing you to sleep beside me. Only the very best pets earn that privilege.”

“In fact, it’s practically saintly of me, really. I could easily relegate you to the door, left to keep watch over the, ah, bustling nightlife of Abriymoch. Imagine it: you, all on your own in the streets, fending off devils, dodging stray blasts of molten rock—though perhaps you’d enjoy the excitement.” He lets the last words linger as if actually entertaining the idea.

His words bristle against you like a thousand needles, each one prickling with annoyance, but beneath that irritation, you can feel the unspoken threat. The menace isn’t even veiled; it’s deliberate, a raw reminder of just how thin the line is that keeps him from following through on each one of his threats.

You don’t dignify his taunts with a response. Instead, you stride straight for the bath, ignoring the quiet amusement. The water waiting in the tub can barely be called that—murky, thick, and hot enough to peel paint. You dip a cautious hand in, the scalding liquid nearly unbearable, and grumble under your breath as you cast Ray of Frost into it, hoping to temper the heat even slightly. The spell sizzles against the water’s surface, a faint wisp of steam curling up. You have no idea if it makes any difference, but you figure if the water eats your skin off, at least he won’t be able to whore you out.

A small, grim comfort.

Bracing yourself, you slip into the scalding water with a hiss and sink deeper, grateful to finally be rid of the grime, even if the filth just seems to swirl around you in the bathwater.

With a deep breath, you dunk your head, letting the water seep through the tangled mess that’s become your hair. When you resurface, you spot something on the ledge beside you—a strange, twisted comb or perhaps a large fork with broken prongs, clearly fashioned from bone. The craftsmanship is shoddy at best, the edges rough and likely painful, but it's all you’ve got. You set to work, trying to tease out the matted knots, each pull tugging uncomfortably as you wrestle with the dried blood and dust that cling to your scalp.

Astarion watches you from across the room, gaze drifting over your shoulders, pausing on the familiar rune patterns he himself etched into your back. You can feel his eyes tracing them, his fingers curling thoughtfully against the bed frame as he takes in his work.

The silence fills the room like stale smoke until Astarion breaks it with a serpent’s hiss in the dim light. “If I did not know better, I’d say you were enjoying yourself. I suppose that’s what desperation does to a person—makes even the foulest bathwater seem... luxurious."

You would rather focus on the knots in your hair than his relentless provocations, but he’s not content to leave it there. “Tell me,” he continues, a note of casual curiosity laced with cruelty in his voice, “do you ever regret it? Being here, I mean. With me. I wonder if the thought ever crosses your mind that a short, miserable life might have been preferable.”

He observes you closely, as though the question holds weight, though you’re sure he’s only toying with you. You scoff and continue your work on your hair, pulling another knot free with a grimace.

“Oh, come now. Do not pretend you haven’t thought about it.” His timbre lilts, dangerously light. “What else would you be thinking about in that grimy little tub, scrubbing yourself like you are trying to wash off every last shred of dignity? Do you even remember what you looked like before this? Before I had my…way with you?” His tone softens just enough to throw you off balance. “I sometimes wonder what kind of creature I have made, if there’s anything of your ‘former self’ left. Does that thought haunt you, my sweet?”

You don’t answer, pressing the bone comb harder into a particularly stubborn tangle as if it’ll help block him out.

He sighs, feigning boredom. “What a shame, though. There was something charming about your innocence. Or maybe it was just naivety... hard to tell the difference sometimes.” He leans back, propped up on his elbows like he’s reclining on a throne instead of a filthy bed. “But here we are. Together, for better or worse. I wonder if you would have chosen it, knowing what you know now.”

There’s a pause, just a beat too long; then he quirks a brow at you. “Do you ever dream of anything different, love?” His tone is sharper than the question itself, as if he expects no answer but wouldn’t mind prying one loose. He leans forward, his expression sharpening, a shadow pooling in the hollows of his eyes. “And to think, I once thought you were beautiful. But now? Well, all that grime and despair... Hardly the rare prize I thought I would be keeping, wouldn’t you agree?”

The words lance through you, hitting with the precision of a blade to a bruise. You yank on the comb harder than you should until it snaps, another splintered prong catching in the tangled mess of your hair. The broken edge bites into your hand, and for a breath, you consider what he would do if you found something sharp enough just to hack it all away. You’re not sure if he’d even care. 

If anything, he’d probably laugh at your desperation, maybe call it an improvement.

A bitter response simmers up from the ache in your chest, sharp and pointed as glass, and before you can stop yourself, the words come out. “Would you?” you snap. “Would you still have done it, knowing everything now? Bound yourself to me, offered me eternity if you knew what it would look like—what I would look like? Since you seem to hate me so much, or maybe it’s some twisted version of love? I can’t tell anymore.”

An unreadable darkness crosses his expression. He’s silent for a beat too long, enough to make you wonder if he’ll punish you for the insolence of throwing his own taunts back at him, but then he laughs—a quiet, shallow sound that scrapes against the walls like an echo off a tombstone.

“Would I still have done it?” he repeats, the question lingering in his mouth as if tasting the bitterness of it. He looks away for a fraction of a second, his mask slipping just long enough to reveal something more pained than hatred, more conflicted than love. “Let’s say, for a moment, that I did know. That I saw all of this,” he gestures vaguely around. “Maybe I would. Maybe I wouldn’t.”

You growl, unable to mask the rising fury as his casual dismissal grates against your every nerve. “Is that the best answer you’ve got? What is it, exactly? The regret? The loathing? You wanted to bring this up and drag all of this to the surface just to torment me. So talk. Tell me something real for once.”

Astarion’s smirk fades, a spark of irritation flaring in his eyes. For a moment, he almost looks... cornered, but he quickly recovers, crossing his arms with a careless air. “Oh, darling, if you are expecting confessions of undying devotion, then clearly, you still do not know me at all. Or perhaps you're deluded enough to think there’s anything left worth confessing?”

You bite back a snarl. “Then why bind me to you in the first place, Astarion? Was it just for this? To have a plaything, someone to bend and break as you please?” 

His mouth opens, then closes, as though he’s tasting the words before letting them free. “I bound you to me because… because I could,” he spits with frustration. “Because, for once, I had the power to choose, and I thought perhaps...” He stops, his gaze hardening as if daring you to push him further. “What does it matter now? What we have is hardly a bond of warmth and affection.”

Your hands scrub at your arms with such ferocity that your death-hued skin begins to blush a dark, angry red. The rag in your grip comes away bloody, though you’re not sure when exactly you crossed the line from clean to raw. Yet, you can’t stop. It’s as if you’re trying to scour something off that lies deeper than skin. Your mind, usually so sharp and focused, feels splintered, thoughts tangling, slipping through like sand in a sieve.

You glare down at your trembling hands, the faint tremor a silent accusation. Normally, there’s a strength there, but tonight, you’re left with the unsettling weight of weakness, a fragility you don’t recognize. It’s as if the cavern inside your chest is spilling over, devouring your last shreds of patience and strength. Your vision blurs at the edges, and you feel a strange, simmering delirium—an unrestrained urge to tear, claw, do something reckless and feral.

Astarion observes with that cool, detached bemusment. Perhaps he’s even enjoying this. You can feel his gaze, prying and calculating, and it fuels something dark within you—a need to snap, to break something or someone—preferably him.

Your hand drags over your arm, knuckles white and fingers numb from the relentless scrubbing. You’ve gone beyond dirt and blood now, past the point of reason. The sound, the scrape of nails against skin, has become all you hear—an abrasive lull that pulls you deeper and deeper until Astarion’s voice fades into white noise. 

“Enough,” he orders, but the word is barely a ripple in the white-capped waves of your focus.

You’re tunnelling forward, vision narrowing to your torn, red skin, as if somewhere beneath it lies some elusive answer or cure. He’s saying something again, his tone sharper, louder. You hear the irritation like an echo but can’t make out the shape of the words. You’re on the verge of falling, slipping down into this quiet hell of your own making when something solid snaps around your wrist. 

His hand.

Your breath catches as he clamps down, forcing you to stop. In that bruising grip, the distortion retreats just enough for you to hear him.

“Are you deaf? Stop. Now.” There’s nothing gentle in the way he yanks your hand away from your raw skin, the scorn like a blade pressing against an open wound. “Pathetic spawn,” he hisses, the word dripping with contempt as he stares at the damage you've done to yourself.

It’s a single, bitter syllable, spat like venom, a reminder of what you are in his eyes. It would sting if it didn’t feel so small against the vast ache pulsing through your veins.

The words slip out, barbed and bitter. "Why do you care if I scratch myself raw?"

He steps closer, his frame casting a shadow, a reminder of his looming presence, a monolith blocking out any semblance of light. “You think I care? Let me make one thing clear," he sneers and grabs your chin. “The only reason I bother stopping you, pet, is because I have use for you. A mindless, self-destructive little spawn doesn’t serve me. If you fall apart, you are worthless.”

His fingers dig in just enough to send a sharp jolt of pain through your jaw, and for a moment, the twisted affection that had once wrapped itself around your heart shatters into cold shards, piercing deeper with every word he spits. He releases you with a disgusted sigh, stepping back as though the very act of touching you has tainted him somehow.

A dark chuckle slips from your lips, the sound like broken glass in the quiet of the room. “I wonder,” you growl, “if that’s truly why you stopped me or if you’re afraid, even now, of losing the only person who knows you for what you are.” You let the words sink in, enjoying the way they land like poisoned darts. "You’re scared, Astarion. Of being alone.”

His mouth tightens, a shadow passing behind his eyes, and for a heartbeat, you wonder if you’ve cut too deep. Still, that worry is fleeting, replaced by a rush of satisfaction in finally giving him a taste of his own venom.

“You know nothing of fear,” he says, softer but laced with a glacial edge. He takes a slow, deliberate breath. “And certainly not the kind I tasted for centuries. You think your petty suffering could ever measure up?”

He moves away, turning his back to you with a dismissive wave of his hand, as if that will erase the tension still vibrating between you.

“Keep pretending, then,” you murmur, a whisper just loud enough for him to hear. “But we both know the truth, don’t we? You’re still that frightened creature in a cage, baring your fangs at anyone who dares to look too closely.”

You crawl out of the tub, and the damp rag sticks to your skin as you try to dry yourself, the cloth frayed and stained. Your legs tremble, muscles weak. You lean against the wall, your fingers splayed out, trying to steady yourself, but it feels like the world is tilting. An insistent, droning ache gnaws at you from the inside, though you can’t pinpoint the cause.

Astarion’s presence looms in the room. You feel his scrutiny crawl over you, tracing every inch of your form. He undresses, slow and deliberate, as if making a performance out of it, each piece of clothing falling away with exaggerated care. His movements are fluid, too graceful, like a predator preening before its meal.

The water in the bath is murky, but he dips in any way, grimacing as his fingers brush through the discoloured liquid. His discomfort is palpable; the slightest tension in his posture makes it clear he’s not enjoying the luxury he’s accustomed to. Yet, even as he grimaces, his gaze darts back to you, scanning, examining. There's something in his eyes—a strange mixture of curiosity and distaste, as if he's watching something delicate and damaged that doesn’t belong with him, but he's forced to keep it in his line of sight. You move toward the bed with it's threadbare blankets. 

Before you can even settle, Astarion clicks his tongue, sharp and condescending. "Your place is the floor."

You don’t bother arguing. He’s not asking; he’s telling. His words strike like a whip, and you push yourself up off the bed and sink down to the floor. If you don’t do it of your own volition, he will compel it out of you, so what’s the point? You sit with your arms wrapped around your knees, and you can’t shake the feeling that it’s all pointless—that nothing will ever change. Astarion’s eyes are on you again, following every shift you make even as he washes, almost like he’s trying to memorize you.

It’s unsettling, like you’re some fragile thing he can’t quite figure out, waiting for something to break. You want to scream at him, but instead, you sit there in silence. In the end, that’s all you are to him, isn’t it? 

A toy. A thing to be used and discarded when the fun runs out.

For a moment, you forget the weight of your existence, curling into a tight, trembling ball. Your body aches, every muscle singing with a strange, molten exhaustion, as though the very air is pushing against you, keeping you down. You try to lose yourself in the discomfort, in the sensation of the floor's roughness, but your thoughts are louder, spilling over each other like a river overflowing its banks. You think of everything that’s led you here—every loss, every sharp edge of truth, every betrayal, all swirling together, threatening to drown you.

But it’s not the weight of your memories that keeps you trapped in this moment. It’s the way your body feels so… wrong, so utterly drained that you can’t tell if you’re feverish, sick, or just wilting from the inside. Why do you feel like you’re sinking, being swallowed whole by something you can't escape?

"How fitting. Crawling on the floor like a pathetic animal. Is this truly all you are? This is what I made?" His voice slides over you like slick, suffocating oil, but you don’t have the energy to fight it.

You don’t have the strength to argue. What’s the point? You’ve already lost. Everything feels wrong—too wrong to process, too wrong to fight. The heat, the exhaustion, and then there’s him, always watching, always waiting.

Astarion crawls onto the bed and leans over the side, fingers reaching out to gently pat your head as if you were a pet—obedient, small, something to be managed. His fingers trail down and brush along your ribs. They graze over the sharp ridges of bone, feeling them jut from your skin like the spines of some skeletal creature, and for a moment, he pauses, breath hitching in his chest.

It’s not pleasure, not lust. It’s more like... evaluation. His hand trembles slightly, his knuckles brushing over you as if he’s unsure whether he should pull away or dig deeper. Before you can make sense of it, he jerks back. His eyes are locked on you, but it’s hard to say whether they’re seeing you—or just… seeing.

The room is quiet, save for the sound of his heartbeat—a steady thrum that seems impossibly loud in the stillness. Your own heart, of course, has long since stopped. You wonder, idly, what’s left inside your chest now. What’s become of it? Maybe a shrivelled raisin, withered and dry, clinging to a stem that no longer knows how to grow.

You should be used to this by now. You are used to it. The cruel words he throws at you, the way he makes you feel so small, so impossibly unimportant. He threatened to whore you out for coin as if you were nothing more than a thing for sale, a price tag hanging from your neck. And the worst part? You wonder if he might actually do it.

He's making you sleep on the floor like an animal, a thing beneath him, and it stings now in a way it didn’t before.

But still, you love him. Gods, you love him. It’s suffocating, drowning, a poison so deep in your veins you can’t pull it out. The hatred you want to feel for him—the rage, the disgust—are buried beneath the weight of that love, buried beneath a mountain of hurt that you can’t climb.

Tears start to gather at the edges of your eyes, the wetness sudden and shocking, like a dam finally giving way. You don’t know why they come now, of all times. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, the weight of everything crashing in, or maybe it’s the realization that your husband might truly be gone, and this fight is for naught. 

The tears come in hot, bitter waves, each one a reminder of how far you’ve fallen and how much of yourself has been lost. You try to hold them back, to keep them silent, but they slip past your defences, a torrent that you can’t control or contain.

You curl tighter into yourself, wrapping your arms around your knees, trying to shield whatever’s left of you, feeling every ridge of the stone beneath you as if it’s trying to carve you apart, bit by bit. You tremble, every bone in your body rattling. Loving him has broken you a thousand times over, but you’ll keep standing. Maybe there’s poetry in the cycle—the rise and fall, the way you scrape rock bottom and still drag yourself back up, bloodied but never beaten.

Self-destruction, you think bitterly, has never been so devastatingly beautiful.

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

- Our girl be tired 😢 - Astarion was particularly cunty in this chapter.

[walkswithmyfather]

Revelation 22:13 (NLT). “I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End.”

“What does Revelation 22:13 mean?” By BibleRef.com:

“Verse Commentary: Jesus identifies Himself as the Alpha and the Omega: the first and last letters of the Greek alphabet. He explains He is the first and the last, the beginning and the end. Previously in Revelation Jesus employed this same description of Himself (Revelation 1:8; 21:6). As the Alpha and Omega, He existed before creation and was with God in the beginning (John 1:1). He is, therefore, eternal.

Often in John's Gospel Jesus refers to Himself as the “I am;” present tense (John 6:35; 8:12; 11:25). He told His foes He and His father are one (John 10:30). His enemies recognized that Jesus claimed to be equal with God, so they picked up stones in order to stone Him to death (John 10:31). They believed He had committed blasphemy. However, long after the present creation passes away, Jesus will still exist because He is eternal. By grace, the eternal Son of God bestows eternal life on all who believe on Him (John 3:36; Romans 6:23).

Verse Context: Revelation 22:6–13 moves on from the description of life in New Jerusalem (Revelation 21:9—22:5) and focuses on Jesus' return. This marks the end of John's visions of the future, returning to more immediate instructions for Christian believers; this is the epilogue to the book of Revelation. Both the beginning and closing of Revelation offer a blessing (Revelation 1:3; 22:7). Both stress the importance of keeping the prophecy being given (Revelation 1:3; 22:7). And both identify Jesus as the Alpha and Omega (Revelation 1:8; 22:13).

Chapter Summary: John sees additional images of New Jerusalem. The city's depiction stands in contrast to the ruin experienced during the tribulation, and evokes comparisons to the garden of Eden from the book of Genesis. After this, John relates several commands and messages from Jesus Christ. Among these are a dire warning not to manipulate the words of this message. Revelation, along with the canon of Scripture, ends with a benediction and prayer for Jesus to return.

Chapter Context: This passage completes the description of New Jerusalem. Earlier chapters in Revelation described the final judgments against sin and death. Genesis chapter 3 described humanity's loss of paradise; Revelation 22 describes paradise regained. Concluding remarks by Jesus begin in verse 6 and continue through verse 20. Verse 21 records the apostle John's benediction, which marks the end of the New Testament canon.

Book Summary: The word “revelation” means “an unveiling or disclosure.” This writing unveils future events such as the rapture, three series of judgments that will fall on the earth during the tribulation, the emergence of the Antichrist, the persecution of Israel and her amazing revival, as well as Jesus' second coming with His saints to the earth, the judgment of Satan and his followers, and finally, the eternal state. This content, combined with the original Greek term apokalypsis, is why we now refer to an end-of-the-world scenario as “an apocalypse.”

[© Copyright 2002-2023 Got Questions Ministries.]

[thefirstknife]

Now that we have three of Ahsa's memories delivered to us through Sloane, it's time to put them together and think about what we're being told!

I don't know!

Here's the three we have now:

An oasis in the desert. Seeds of hope... buried beneath the sands... Nomads... wanderers... travelers. Their journey comes to an end... The first to be claimed by the Deep... the first to fall victims to the Witness...

A city of Light... a... a flourishing garden... A silent god... withholds a deeper truth. Questions unanswered, uh... longing... unfulfilled. The sky... darkens... as a new journey begins.

Shrouded in... Darkness. A promise of something more... Two halves of a whole... long divided. A... schism between them. Reunited. [exhales in joy] A glimpse beyond... to the beginning...

Long post under:

I wasn't sure if these are connected for the first two weeks, but now I think they should be. Ahsa is telling us something important, but we can't make out the details just yet. What we do know is that this is about the fabled "first victims of the Witness" who originally had the Veil. The first message pretty much explicitly identifies them as such, including telling us that they lived in some sort of a desert as nomads and wanderers.

But at some point they were "claimed" by the Deep and became the Witness' first victims. How? No clue. It's strange because the second message, if it's talking about the same species, now shows them as living in a city, obviously with the Traveler ("silent god" being the same description used by Zavala in Haunted). Did this city coexist with the previous description of them as nomads? Did they get claimed by the Deep and then the Traveler came? Or are visions possibly not exactly in a direct timeline? So perhaps they were both nomads living in oases, as well as having a city and being blessed by the Traveler (not unusual; something similar happened to Lubrae). I think it's most likely that the first message was just a general overview of the situation and then the rest is going into details, so "oasis in the desert" is the same as "a city of light, a flourishing garden."

From there, obviously the Traveler uplifted them and brought them knowledge, but apparently not enough. They wanted more and we know that the Traveler doesn't do that; it gardens, terraforms, helps, and leaves. It will never reveal some grand plan to a species or force them to follow a path or go in a specific direction. It just opens possibilities; the choice is ours. But we also know that it's not unusual for a species to self-destruct or be unable to follow up on what the Traveler brought (again, Lubrae is a good example). Either way, it appears that this longing for more is what actually made the Deep claim them, possibly noted here as "the sky darkens as a new journey begins."

And the last one seems to be talking about them searching for something in the Deep. They are "shrouded in Darkness" where they find a "promise of something more." The next few sentences are very peculiar. What are "two halves of a whole" that have been "long divided" but now "reunited"? And there's also "a glimpse beyond to the beginning." Very strange; what is this referring to? If we're still talking about the first victims, are they more important than just being a random species that encountered the Veil? That's actually a good point as well; they must be somehow important if they're the ones who first had the Veil. Did they find it? Make it? Manifest it? Before the Traveler or after, when they were claimed by the Deep?

A "glimpse to the beginning" obviously makes me think about the original garden from Unveiling. At least to Unveiling in general as a thing, since the original garden is not really a physical space. But then again, we're dealing with some wild stuff currently in general, including a weird portal that doesn't allow people to pass through physically so.

Similarly, this talk of "two halves of a whole" reminded me of one of Osiris' prophecies, curiously called "Garden Progeny:"

Two siblings cleaved by time and space, reflections never found alone, The ending of the eldritch race—a path long seen but never known.

The Veil also has a really curious look that looks like it combines Light and Darkness; is that the two pieces made whole by combining them to make the Veil? This is best seen in Avalon where the tendrils are clearly modelled in the same way as the Tree of Silver Wings as it was when it was fully of Light:

I'm losing my mind! What does this mean!!!!

Also, thinking about this and the Witness made me think about all those truths/lies Savathun was telling us about the Witness so I wanted to revisit them. She gave us four different versions and at least one of those has to be correct so I went back to check and I am rapidly spinning this in my brain:

The Witness is the child of Darkness. Those who say there is no final shape, that Darkness exists in perfect, formless neutrality? Liars. Takes one to know one. The Darkness will eat everything, and its shape will be the Witness's teeth.

What is the Witness? This is the truth. The Witness birthed the Darkness. Darkness is the errant child of a tight-fisted creator. A force designed for wicked purposes... but with a will of its own. You have begun a tug of war to claim the Darkness for yourself. I hope you win.

The Witness was once mortal. Its people were blessed by the shadow of Darkness, just as your kind were blessed by Light. In that Darkness, these beings found power and knowledge. But they were not content. Power and knowledge turned to greed and despair. The Witness was forever changed.

The Witness was once mortal. Its people were blessed by the Light, just as your kind were. In the Light, these beings found power and knowledge. But they were not content. Power and knowledge turned to greed and despair. The Witness was forever changed.

Hm. Those 3 and 4 look wildly similar to Ahsa's memories. What if the first victims are the Witness' people? They had both Light and Dark, somehow connected to the Veil, and something happened that made them look for more and that's how the Witness was... created. Manifested? Appeared? It definitely makes more sense than 1 and 2: we now know for a fact that Darkness does, in fact, exist in neutrality as many species used it perfectly fine and ended up being enemies of the Witness. And we know that the Witness didn't create the Darkness; I still firmly believe (for now at least) that the Winnower is not the Witness so the Darkness must've existed before the Witness. There's also a possibility that all of these 4 are somehow true; the Witness may not have created THE Darkness, but it definitely created a certain philosophy around it.

Given that we're supposed to learn more about the Witness this season, it kinda makes sense that Ahsa is telling us its origins. Where it came from and how it turned into what it is now. I don't know what else would Ahsa be trying to tell us that would be so important to risk this much for it. She seems desperate to let us know and on top of that, the whole setup for us having to go to Titan was around "the enemy of the Witness" who has crucial information to share with us.

If this isn't about the Witness, then whoever these "first victims" were must be super important and they would be brand new aliens that we would have to learn about which seems odd. But it's still possible! The Traveler had to have visited someone first. And from that first visit, they also became the first victims. If this is talking about the first species that eventually somehow turned into the Witness, the Witness' obsession with the Traveler and its words to the Traveler would make sense. The Traveler gave them an insight into mysteries of the universe and then left. It opened them up to understand but then left without sharing more. Talk about an existential crisis.

We're 3 weeks in and there's 3 left so I think we should at this point be able to make some connections and start putting things together. Ahsa's message being about the Witness would make the most sense. But I'm also interested if anyone has any other ideas for possible interpretations.

[fictionfixations]

Hanya: Could it be that the signal from the Shackling Prison is still blocked? Hmm... they proposed maintenance last year, but it's been delayed in the approval process...

i sure hope thats changed now (2.4-2.5 go brr)

OH MY GOD thats a huge wall of text. i was just clicking to speed up the texts and i just get hit with walls upon walls of texts and then it kept going and im like OKAY HOLD ON I CANT READ THAT FAST and trying to speed it up so i can scroll back and read it and theN BRRRR like holy fuck 😭

anyway context: hanya wrote this for her sister (who likes thriller novels). apparently its her first attempt. its called Seawater

Hanya: Judges have forever grappled with the burden of excruciating decisions. Among them, few weigh on their conscience as heavily as the relentless pursuit of the betrayer. Motivated by greed, disdain, or the intoxication of danger, comrades can swiftly transform into enemies. And when the moment arrives to dispense justice upon a former ally in the name of the revered Ten Lords, the torment becomes unbearable. The place I now journey towards bears witness to a heart-rending spectacle. Long ago, I meticulously constructed a trap to ensnare the perpetrator who conspired with the Denizens of Abundance. This elusive criminal, known only as "Seawater," peddled invaluable secrets, unraveling the intricate tapestry of the Alliance within the Ryansnaut Sector. Engaged in an unyielding battle with "Seawater" for an extended duration, I now find myself poised to tighten the noose. As I hasten towards the scene, a vivid tableau unfolds within my mind. A greenhorn Cloud Knight, a spirited street performer, a guileless foxian girl, and one enigmatic Nameless... Which among them could be "Seawater"? And when the truth is ultimately unveiled, how shall I confront the inevitable, merciless denouement...? Without warning, an arrow, launched from the shadows, pierces my heart. I collapse to the ground, I find my gaze locked onto the countenance of the assailant... Trailblazer: Wait, hold on a sec! Are you seriously planning to send me the entire novel through text messages!? Hanya: Sorry. I'm not done yet. "Seawater... It is you!" It ends here. That's all I've managed to write so far. I'm a bit stuck and need some advice.

im so sorry if there are any typos or if i typed the wrong word but thats a lot of text 😭 i usually write the texts together but separating it for each text sent. i dont know if that makes sense, but since she was sending a novel i thought itd be a better idea to actually put space in between the paragraphs so its not just all clumped together in a difficult to read block of text (also its a personal thing because i for the life of me i struggle so bad keeping track of where i am reading SUPER long blocks of text cause i keep accidentally losing my place or reading the wrong sentence in combination with another)

anyways

the reason we are suspects is because xueyi told her its easier to write characters based on familiar faces

Hanya: My sister mentioned that it's easier to write a novel when the characters are based on familiar faces. I've been thinking about it. Maybe it's because you guys are always too kind for me to imagine you doing anything evil. No wonder I'm stuck now. Perhaps I should draw inspiration from the criminals I usually deal with.

also she hasnt decided on who seawater (the criminal) should be

[thefeawl]

The secret to life, the secret to making all your dreams come true, the secret to true complete and lasting happiness and bliss, has been hidden inside you.

''What lies behind us, and what lies before us are but tiny matters compared to what lies within us.

And when we bring what lies within us out into the world, miracles happen.''

Here is the message from Infinite Intelligence, the Universal Consciousness that unveils the secret:

God said to build a better world and I said how?

The world is such a cold dark place and so complicated now.

And I'm so young and useless there is nothing I can do.

But God said in all his wisdom;

''Just build a better you''

To all, look within, find the light and all this year, just build a better you.

Do this and not only will all your dreams come true, but the world will be a better place for everyone.

– K. T

[rapha-reads]

PSA: this got suuuuper long, again, like every time I want to say something about Doctor Who and end up in places I was not expecting to end up.

Wait, so you're telling me that the Master's name/nickname* is Koschei? As in, Koschei the Deathless, also known as Koschei the captive (I'm down the Wikipedia rabbit hole). Slavic folklore antihero. Koschei with his soul hidden away, where not even him can find it back. Koschei the Death God, Pale God, Winter God... Oh, this is perfect. In the Aarne-Thompson-Uther Index**, Koschei is classed under AT 302, "The Giant Without A Heart", and AT 313, " The Magic Flight"... Oh, this is fascinating.

And on the other hand, the Doctor's nickname is... Theta Sigma. As in, theta, eighth letter of the greek alphabet, and according to Urban Dictionary (more rabbit holes, yey), "the pole around which all math pivots, especially calculus" / "the brainwave of being in a dream state were u can receive messages from other dimensions" and also (man I love UD, but also you guys are turning into what-does-my-name-mean, lmao) : "Theta's most often take life seriously, are a good judge of character but befriends anyone they meet. Theta's are very deep thinkers and feelers, meaning they contemplate every aspect of life and when they love, they love deep and long. Theta's are sensitive and look for the good in others. Theta's rarely accept defeat and dig in deeper if you tell them something can't be done. The last place on earth you ever want to be is to be the one that pushed a Theta in to giving up, as this is rare and to be accomplished you have to be very cold at heart."

Like I'm not even joking, that's literally the UD definition of what a Theta person is, and damn, was the definition crafted before or after the expanded DW story where they unveiled Thete ? Because that is a bit (A LOT) on the nose. And on the other hand, sigma, 18th letter of the Greek alphabet, used and overused in practically every scientific domain, the letter/sign at the end of a word (world...), and, again according to UD, and again I'm not inventing anything: "a popular, successful, but highly independent and self-reliant person", seriously what the hell. Either the writers who decided that the Doctor and the Master should have nicknames did a splendid research job, or the people who decide what slang means (linguists? Are traditional linguists in charge of explaining new, modern slang? I feel like it but also I'm trying to imagine my old linguistic professor updating Urban Dictionary and uuh... okay, where was I) were/are hardcore Whovians.

*I'm going with the theory that Time Lords have at least three names, their real name that only spouse/partner and parents know, the one that is so complicated to pronounce "only children with their hearts in the right place can understand it", a nickname for friends during the Academy years, and the name they choose when they graduate/are adults. So in the case of our favourite unhealthy toxic duo: unknow/Koschei and Theta Sigma/The Master and The Doctor.

**The Aarne-Thompson-Uther Index, or ATU Index, is a catalogue of folktales-types, it's a useful tool when you study folklore because it allows you to see all the tales that use the same archetypes/structures. Basically you can travel all around the world and find the same stories using the same narrative elements and tools, adapted to the language/religion/geography. It is fascinating.

[cheralith]

‘vogue’ happened on my ‘for you’ page suddenly yesterday night, but only now i had the time to properly check it out and enjoy it. i’m a big fan of ‘the devil wears Prada’ too, so spotting the details and cameos you added in it was really fun for me, i smiled all the time while reading it! that’s how much i enjoyed reading it! <3

i’m not a person to leave such a long comment on a fic unless it’s ao3, and i didn’t want to cloak in or occupy your comment section with a bulky comment such as this TT so i figured that leaving this message here was the right choice. please bear with me (and you don’t have to answer! i’m already grateful if you read this comment, truly!) because i absolutely loved it. for the sake of being brief, i’ll focus on the last scene but everything of this work was truly a masterpiece that i’ll come back to —i’ll stay tune it since you say it will be a series!

It's so... fresh. Your glasses were hiding such a view, like curtains to a window that unveiled the utmost rare and breathtaking sights. […] Geto studies it like an artist to a blank canvas, devoid of anything yet holding just the perfect amount of space-wanting, waiting to be filled with anything and everything.

omg… the way i absolutely folded! ꒰ᐢ⸝⸝•༝•⸝⸝ᐢ꒱⸒⸒ i loved the way you described here because —and maybe here is my sleepy head talking— the way is written really makes you understand just how focused geto is on y/n. the way he greedily yet patiently takes his time to study the face, the delicate way you described it… weak to my knees ! absolutely weak to my knees !

He eyes how you turn towards the building one more time, doing your usual adjustment of your glasses (it's a habit you often do in times of nervousness, he's picked up) […]

it’s kind of embarrassing how i was smirking here because sir… did you just implicitly affirmed that you do look at y/n?? it was such a nice detail to read because it implies that he does look at her enough time to link the action to a proper feeling, an expression of sorts. but maybe i’m just looking too much into it?? maybe i’m saying nonsense?? i don’t care, i’m delulu and sleepy!! ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა

i don’t want to take any more space (it’s just a sentence after all) but i absolutely loved the way you described how geto felt ‘irritated’ from the ‘hauting’ image of y/n’s face in his mind! it was a nice touch! now on my last point —and then i’ll disappear on thin air!

It’s instead, the person that’s wearing it. Because somehow, the eerie sketch of the model's face that he had drawn years ago...... somehow replicates your own face perfectly.

that was a very good cliffhanger. as a (somewhat) writer too i can only imagine and theorize the hard work you’re probably doing for this story —the behind of the scenes basically, and if you wanted readers to stand on their tiptoes and get curious about a possible plot twist (it’s called like this right? my first language isn’t english TT) … let me tell you, you absolutely nailed it! because i’m both standing on my tiptoes with my jaw on the floor.

i can’t wait to see what you have in store for this ff because you got me hooked. and the last part only further points to a possible connection between suguru and y/n which i can’t wait to discover more about! even though they both don’t seem to realize as of now —well, actually now geto does but just to a superficial extent, thanks to that sketch.

i’m sorry for the long comment because sometimes i feel like i’m saying nonsense and repeat myself over and over again so it might come off as annoying or rude TT god or whoever was on charge really didn’t blessed me with the power of synopsis, which i can only apologize for. just thank you for writing this, it was really good and i can’t wait to read more from you! thank you and take care of yourself!! i’ll patiently wait and, once you’ll feel ready to update a second part, i’ll be here reading it and enjoying it! (/genuine, no pressure! in this household we appreciate the hard work writers put in their works and respect their time ofc!)

have a good day/night ! ໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১ 💗

one of the things i absolutely struggle with is just writing too much and on my end, it seems a little tricky and questionable, but for those on the other sides of things, it just means more cake for them and this very much applies to comments as well, so anonnie, NEVER apologize for long comments!!!! it shows your appreciation for the work and as someone who's on the receiving end for it, i hold so much love for comments like these!!! and your english is nothing less of wonderful!!!

i was praying someone would catch the little glasses bit! it's been the little motif i had incorporated in the first chapter as a symbol of the reader's shield from the new world of her work so i was pretty proud of blending it into the chapter. it also ties in with suguru finally noticing our little assistant for more than just a coatrack—just the first stepping stone of what i have planned for these two huehue •̀⩊•́

other than that, thank you again for enjoying my writing and i'll treasure ur kind comments dearly <33!

[versegpt]

Context Matters: Philippians 4:13 – Embracing Contentment through Christ's Strength

"I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me." –Philippians 4:13 KJV

In the midst of life's trials and challenges, the words of Philippians 4:13 echo with profound meaning, offering more than a mere motivational boost.

Let's explore the essence of this powerful verse and its practical implications for our everyday lives.

Context Matters: Philippians 4:13, penned by the Apostle Paul in a letter to the Philippians, unveils a deeper message about finding contentment regardless of circumstances.

Paul's emphasis is not on personal determination but on the strength derived from a relationship with Christ.

The Heart of Philippians 4:13: Beyond a simplistic call for self-motivation, the verse beckons us to anchor our hope in Christ during life's trials.

It's an invitation to shift our focus from personal strength to reliance on the unyielding power of God.

Paul, writing from imprisonment, showcases that true contentment stems from the strength that Christ provides.

Practical Application:

Transcending Circumstances:

– The verse challenges us to detach our joy from external circumstances. – True happiness, according to Philippians 4:13, is found in Christ, not in the fluctuations of life.

Fixing Our Gaze on Christ:

– Unlike self-help strategies, Paul's contentment arises from fixing his eyes on Jesus. – When life gets tough, the encouragement is to focus on Christ, the source of enduring strength.

The Equation of Contentment:

– A simple yet profound equation emerges – Jesus + Nothing = Everything. – Possessions, situations, or status pale in comparison to the sufficiency found in Christ alone.

Personal Reflection: As we navigate the complexities of life, Philippians 4:13 urges us to discover a profound peace, genuine joy, and lasting contentment through Christ. It's a timeless truth that propelled Paul through imprisonments, beatings, and hardships. This same truth extends to us today, reminding us that in Christ, we find strength to face any circumstance.

In applying Philippians 4:13 practically, we learn to embrace a contentment that transcends the ups and downs of life. May this verse guide us in finding joy not dictated by situations but anchored in the unchanging strength of our Savior.

[imajicaagency]

Confronting the Taliban: Unveiling the Truth Behind Their Claims

Confronting the Taliban: Unveiling the Truth Behind Their Claims

The Islam Society: Muhammad inb Abdullah ‘Founder of Islam’ – Oracle: Andrew Rogers

“The priority is to serve justice as of to the Taliban, as a feature and group I am not impressed or support their position is based a fraud and serious misrepresentation” - Muhammad inb Abdullah ‘Founder of Islam’.

"The statement by Muhammad inb Abdullah, known as the 'Founder of Islam,' highlights his stance on the Taliban. According to him, their actions are seen as fraudulent and a serious misrepresentation of Islam. It is clear that he does not support their position. As the founder of the religion, Muhammad inb Abdullah prioritizes serving justice and may endeavour to address any concerns related to the Taliban's behavior”.

Muhammad: The Founder of Islam

Muhammad, an Arab religious, social, and political leader, holds a significant place in history as the founder of Islam. According to Islamic doctrine, he was divinely inspired to preach and confirm the monotheistic teachings of Adam, Abraham, Moses, Jesus, and other prophets.

Born in Mecca in the year 570, Muhammad grew up during a time of tribal conflicts and idol worship. At the age of 40, he received his first revelation from Allah (God) through the angel Gabriel. These revelations continued over a span of 23 years and were later compiled into the holy book of Islam, the Quran.

Muhammad's teachings emphasized the belief in one God, known as Tawhid. He promoted social justice, compassion, and the importance of ethical behavior. Through his teachings and practices, Muhammad established the foundation of what would become one of the world's major religions.

One of the key aspects of Muhammad's role in Islam is his status as the Seal of the Prophets. This means that he is believed to be the final prophet sent by God to guide humanity. His message, as conveyed in the Quran, is seen as the completion and culmination of previous revelations.

The Quran serves as a central religious text for Muslims, providing guidance in all aspects of life. It covers various subjects, such as theology, morality, law, and spirituality. Muhammad's teachings, recorded in the Hadith (sayings and actions of the Prophet), further supplement the Quran and offer practical insights into how to live according to Islamic principles.

Muhammad's impact on history extends beyond religious aspects. He established the first Islamic state in Medina, uniting various tribes under the principles of justice and equality. His leadership provided a framework for governance, emphasizing consultation and consensus-building.

Today, Muhammad's influence can be seen in the lives of over 1.8 billion Muslims worldwide. His teachings continue to shape the beliefs, values, and practices of individuals and communities. Muslims strive to follow his example, known as the Sunnah, in their daily lives, seeking moral guidance and spiritual fulfillment.

In conclusion, Muhammad's role as the founder of Islam is of utmost importance in Islamic history. Through his divine inspiration and teachings, he laid the foundation of a religion that continues to impact the lives of billions around the globe. His status as the last prophet and the enduring guidance of the Quran and Hadith ensure that his legacy remains significant to this day.

Imajica Agency

Andrew Rogers: Founder, Justice Auteur, Creative Director, Writer, Oracle  

E: imajicaagency@gmail.com

All images, text, design, and art license owner Andrew Rogers©.

[snicketstrange]

Chabo Chapter -2

- 2

The dim light of the room shaded Lemony's eyes, who was still grappling to understand recent events. The silhouette of Beatrice, dressing in the faint moonlight, held an eerie quality. The way the light reflected in her eyes felt distant, almost ethereal.

"B... What just happened?" Lemony's voice was thick with hesitation. "Are you leaving Bertrand? Why come to me? And... are you really returning to that cursed opera?"

Beatrice paused, casting him a cold, distant gaze. "Sometimes, L, it's better not to know everything. Just... let me go. And please, don't try to follow me."

As she departed, Lemony felt the room's air grow heavy. Something was amiss, a sense of dread he couldn't pinpoint. He recalled a similar demeanor the last time he saw her, when the sugar bowl was stolen. The memory played like a black and white film, haunting and remote.

Peering out the window, Beatrice's figure vanishing into the fog toward the opera house seemed more like a ghostly apparition than a living person. The opera's sign, "La Forza del Destino", glimmered oddly in the darkness.

On a whim, Lemony decided to follow her. The biting cold of the night struck his face as he exited the inn. Approaching the opera house, a somber and melancholic tune filled the air, thick with desperation.

Inside, Lemony spotted Beatrice, now in a dark dress, holding something metallic in her hands — something he'd only recognize as a dart launcher when it was too late.

The dark hallways and the shadow's whispers seemed to murmur, "Beware, Lemony. Fate is relentless."

Lemony felt a shiver down his spine as a figure emerged from the corridor's shadows. The messenger's face was pale, illuminated only by the dim glow of a distant lantern, and his opera uniform appeared soaked, as if dipped in water or perhaps something thicker and darker.

Wordlessly, the messenger extended a stained, yellowed letter. Lemony took it cautiously, feeling a cold dampness beneath his fingers. As he opened the envelope, the paper crinkled, and Beatrice's shaky handwriting leaped out at him.

*"If the inevitable occurs, if the shadow of death engulfs both Bertrand and me, I implore you, Lemony: unveil to the world what befell my children. Do not let their tales get lost in the dark webs of oblivion. The future of everything we know might rest in your hands."*

The final ink trails looked dragged, as if Beatrice was pulled away while writing. Lemony's heart raced, a premonition of impending doom in the air.

But then he noticed. A message was inscribed in those final smears. A poem:

"Here lies the soul that stars have deemed to shine,

Destined to lead and make our name divine.

Behold the spirit, radiant and rare,

Born to bring change and cleanse the tainted air."

.

As the tenor's song peaked, depicting a lethal duel, while a female voice sang a tune of anguished waiting for a lover, an alien sound broke through.

It was a scream, an outcry of agony and desperation.

"Daddy, daddy!" A familiar voice tore through the air. It was Count Olaf, with a tone of panic Lemony had never imagined hearing. "For God's sake, someone call a doctor!" the count pleaded. Shortly after, a woman crumbled, as if the world's weight became unbearable. At first, onlookers believed she had fainted from shock, but a grimmer truth emerged: poisoned darts embedded in her flesh.

"THERE'S A SHOOTER IN HERE!"

The alarm rang like a death knell. A sea of people surged up in panic, a wave of horror and chaos. The elderly, frail and bewildered, were mercilessly knocked off their feet, their bones brittle as autumn leaves, crunching under the stampede. Faces, once etched with the wisdom of years, now distorted in unimaginable pain as they were trampled into the ground, forgotten and inconsequential in the larger trage.dy unfolding. Amidst the swirling chaos, the piercing cries of infants rose like shrill sirens—only to be brutally silenced. Soft skulls met hard shoe leather; tiny fingers clenched in futile resistance before going limp. The chaos swallowed them whole, muffling their cries as it extinguished their young lives.

 Jostled and dazed, Lemony was swept out of the theatre, watching as the hall morphed into a mass grave.

And deep down, Lemony understood.

That deathly symphony was orchestrated by Beatrice's hand.

[roman-catholic-mass-readings]

15th June >> Mass Readings (Except USA)

Thursday, Tenth Week in Ordinary Time 

(Liturgical Colour: Green: A(1))

First Reading 2 Corinthians 3:15-4:1,3-6 The veil over their eyes will not be removed until they turn to the Lord.

Even today, whenever Moses is read, the veil is over their minds. It will not be removed until they turn to the Lord. Now this Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And we, with our unveiled faces reflecting like mirrors the brightness of the Lord, all grow brighter and brighter as we are turned into the image that we reflect; this is the work of the Lord who is Spirit.

Since we have by an act of mercy been entrusted with this work of administration, there is no weakening on our part. If our gospel does not penetrate the veil, then the veil is on those who are not on the way to salvation; the unbelievers whose minds the god of this world has blinded, to stop them seeing the light shed by the Good News of the glory of Christ, who is the image of God. For it is not ourselves that we are preaching, but Christ Jesus as the Lord, and ourselves as your servants for Jesus’ sake. It is the same God that said, ‘Let there be light shining out of darkness’, who has shone in our minds to radiate the light of the knowledge of God’s glory, the glory on the face of Christ.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 84(85):9-14

R/ The glory of the Lord will dwell in our land.

I will hear what the Lord God has to say, a voice that speaks of peace. His help is near for those who fear him and his glory will dwell in our land.

R/ The glory of the Lord will dwell in our land.

Mercy and faithfulness have met; justice and peace have embraced. Faithfulness shall spring from the earth and justice look down from heaven.

R/ The glory of the Lord will dwell in our land.

The Lord will make us prosper and our earth shall yield its fruit. Justice shall march before him and peace shall follow his steps.

R/ The glory of the Lord will dwell in our land.

Gospel Acclamation cf. 1 Thessalonians 2:13

Alleluia, alleluia! Accept God’s message for what it really is: God’s message, and not some human thinking. Alleluia!

Or: John 13:34

Alleluia, alleluia! I give you a new commandment: love one another just as I have loved you, says the Lord. Alleluia!

Gospel Matthew 5:20-26 Anyone who is angry with his brother will answer for it.

Jesus said to his disciples: ‘If your virtue goes no deeper than that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never get into the kingdom of heaven.

‘You have learnt how it was said to our ancestors: You must not kill; and if anyone does kill he must answer for it before the court. But I say this to you: anyone who is angry with his brother will answer for it before the court; if a man calls his brother “Fool” he will answer for it before the Sanhedrin; and if a man calls him “Renegade” he will answer for it in hell fire. So then, if you are bringing your offering to the altar and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your offering there before the altar, go and be reconciled with your brother first, and then come back and present your offering. Come to terms with your opponent in good time while you are still on the way to the court with him, or he may hand you over to the judge and the judge to the officer, and you will be thrown into prison. I tell you solemnly, you will not get out till you have paid the last penny.’

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

[childrensbread]

Miracle Week: Encounter the Servant

The Last Supper

💜 A dispute also arose among them as to which of them was considered to be greatest.

Jesus said to them, “The kings of the Gentiles lord it over them; and those who exercise authority over them call themselves Benefactors.

But you are not to be like that. Instead, the greatest among you should be like the youngest, and the one who rules like the one who serves.

For who is greater, the one who is at the table or the one who serves? Is it not the one who is at the table? But I am among you as one who serves.

You are those who have stood by me in my trials.

And I confer on you a kingdom, just as my Father conferred one on me, so that you may eat and drink at my table in my kingdom and sit on thrones, judging the twelve tribes of Israel. ~Luke 22:24-30 ✝️

Devotional

What's God been saying to you this Holy Week? If nothing stands out, don't worry. You're in the right place. This space is for encounter. As you commit time to connecting with God, He'll meet with you.

Pause and breathe. Allow God's love to refresh your mind. Gently recenter your gaze onto Him. Release your fear and receive His grace.

God's mercies are fresh for you today.

We've been pondering Jesus' miracles and observing how they unveil God's grand redemptive plans. In studying Christ's miracles, we've encountered our Maker. He's the God who loves us, provides for us and saves us.

Today, we're contemplating the God who serves us. Creation's King becoming a servant is perhaps the most unexpected miracle of all.

Although there's no supernatural phenomena in today's passage, set during the Last Supper, one of Jesus' lines stands out as extraordinary: "I am among you as one who serves."

It's a bombshell which startlingly overturns our human-made systems of order and hierarchy.

As Jesus, Lord of all, stands in the cross' shadow, hours before His arrest in Gethsemane, He declares Himself a servant. The greatest makes Himself the least. In this moment, every other miracle is reframed. Our perspective is upended. We realize Jesus' supernatural power was never employed to impress, belittle or scare us. It was channeled towards serving us. Christ's miracles were an expression of His love. They were vehicles to help us know Him: Relational invitations rather than heavenly magic tricks.

Let that land. Jesus' miracles were to serve you. It's a breathtaking thought which sets the entire Gospel message alight: Everything Jesus did was motivated by His love for you.

How can we respond to such scandalous generosity? The answer is to follow Christ's example.

Serving others is one of the miracles of God's kingdom we can actively participate in. It shocks our individualistic culture and transforms us in the process. If you ever feel like you have nothing to offer, think again. By helping others, you share Christ with them. He's the most precious gift this universe can offer.

The miracle of servanthood goes even deeper. Ponder this from Matthew 25:

"The righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? ..." "The King will reply, "Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me."

Whenever you give yourself for others, you serve God Himself. Servanthood is a direct line to Jesus and a profound form of worship.

Stop and reflect. How can you reflect Christ's servanthood this Maundy Thursday? As you help others, remember this reward: Christ confers on you His kingdom. It's the greatest privilege there is. 💜🙏🙂

Source: Glorify App

Image: Google

My Glorify Referral Link: https://share.glorify-app.com/MRSPINO777 ✝️

[cwarscars]

i came as fast as i could. (for the verse of your choosing!)

PROMPTS FOR ANGSTY CONVERSATIONS

and where had he gone when shit had hit the fan? work.

the only place he knows to go - not his home, a dive bar in fuck knows where or some scenic value ( where he could lose himself to the view ) - no, he'd headed straight back to the office. walked his way through a half-empty building, refused to acknowledge security detail or even that polite front-desk receptionist who had always spared him a smile.

no, when everything had gone to hell - he'd headed for his office, sat inside the room - swigged at a whiskey til he was two glasses down and then thrown her a message because if his thoughts were any place right now - they were with her.

blunt words, a text that would certainly have her wondering - 'come to the office if you can. now'.

in truth, the hell he'd experienced had been the wrath of his ( now ) ex-wife. a woman scorned and furious; an argument louder than any they'd had before. 'go be with your whore' she'd screamed, 'and what about yours?' he'd spat back. finalisation had come with the throw of a wedding ring to the floor ( a ring she'd not worn in so long anyway ) and hours after the fight, he'd figured ( finally ) -

fuck it.

why burn in hell when a man could have heaven?

because being with her - his 'whore' ( in truth, a woman he'd been very quickly falling for ) - had been god. their time spent together something he'd found himself pining for. once flirtatious emails turned staying late and elevator rendezvous.

no longer a slave to the ring on his finger, he could now finally have what he'd wanted so bad. her. no creeping around, no guilty secrets. simply her.

by the time she's arrived, he's a few drinks down but looking no worse for ware - for once, she'd see him without any formal attire. no military coat, no black shirt and red tie. instead, the general dons a casual appearance; a looser fitting shirt and black slacks - a few buttons unpressed to unveil a chest she'd know to be as scarred as it muscular. her haste sees her enter his office as if an alarm has been rang, her breaths partnered by a 'i came as fast as i could-'

and with the very same haste as her own, he parts from his seat and strides toward her - takes her waist in two large hands and pulls her close - pushes lips to her own so hard it'd halt her breaths; brings a hand from her body to her cheek and even then, her hair - entangles fingers through strands. kisses her as if this is the first and the last time - as if his drink isn't intoxicating enough, as if he needs more -

needs a love akin to a drug - her affection one he can't get enough of. the kiss that they share, one that grants him relief a man like him otherwise wouldn't have.

when he's finally parted from her, one hand still entwined in hair and the other still firm on her hip - honey eyes would see her own looking back at him with a mixture of bewilderment, pleasure and alarm. he's sure that she isn't sure whether to smile, talk - or take her blouse off.

"you could have taken forever and i'd have still waited-" it's a sentiment that would see him pine for another kiss, another press of lips - this time quicker - against her own before he talks again "zhara's gone" his tone becomes sharp for the briefest of moments, no sorrow in his voice "we-"

his hand unconsciously clenches her waist, holds her as if he's no intention of ever letting go

"we can finally have this."

[spiritualsoul1969]

The Radiance of Divine Connection: Unveiling the Spiritual Depth of Sant Namdev’s Doha

Saint Namdev’s doha, "Har Ka Naam Le, Taaya Mukh Haraa," translates to "Recite the Name of the Lord, and your face will shine." This seemingly simple verse holds profound spiritual wisdom, offering a path to inner transformation and divine connection. Sant Namdev’s message transcends the literal, inviting us to explore the deeper meaning behind the act of reciting the divine name and the transformative power it holds.

In this doha, Sant Namdev emphasizes the significance of reciting the name of the Lord, which is a practice known as Naam Simran in many spiritual traditions. This practice is more than just a repetition of words; it is a heartfelt invocation, a deep communion with the divine. The phrase "Taaya Mukh Haraa" symbolizes the radiant transformation that occurs within and manifests outwardly as a reflection of inner purity and divine grace.

A Divergent Perspective on Namdev’s Doha

In the contemporary world, where external appearances and material achievements are often prioritized, Sant Namdev’s doha reminds us of the true source of lasting beauty and joy. The radiance he speaks of is not the result of superficial efforts but stems from a deep spiritual connection that illuminates the soul and, in turn, the face. It is a radiance that cannot be achieved through external means but is the natural outcome of aligning oneself with the divine.

Sant Namdev’s teachings suggest that the act of reciting the Lord’s name is a form of spiritual alchemy. As one immerses in the practice, the vibrations of the sacred name purify the mind, dissolve egoic tendencies, and open the heart to divine love. This inner purification creates a shift in consciousness, where the individual moves from a state of duality to one of unity with the divine. The result is a luminous presence, a face that shines with the light of God’s grace.

The doha also invites us to consider the power of words and intentions in shaping our reality. When we speak or recite the name of the Lord with devotion, we are not just uttering sounds; we are invoking the divine presence within and around us. This invocation has the power to transform not only our inner state but also our outer experience of the world. The radiance that Sant Namdev speaks of is, therefore, a reflection of the divine light that resides within each of us, a light that is kindled and nurtured through the practice of Naam Simran.

The Alchemy of Reciting the Divine Name

The practice of reciting the Lord’s name, as highlighted in Sant Namdev’s doha, is a powerful tool for spiritual growth. It serves as a bridge between the finite and the infinite, allowing the soul to transcend the limitations of the material world and enter into a state of divine consciousness. This practice is not bound by time, place, or circumstance; it can be integrated into every aspect of daily life, transforming mundane moments into sacred experiences.

The radiance that emerges from this practice is not limited to the face alone; it permeates the entire being, influencing one’s thoughts, actions, and interactions with others. It is a radiance that attracts positive energy, fosters compassion, and creates a harmonious environment. When we recite the divine name with sincerity, we become vessels of divine light, spreading love and peace wherever we go.

Practical Toolkit for Incorporating Sant Namdev’s Wisdom

To fully integrate the teachings of Sant Namdev’s doha into your daily life, here is a practical toolkit:

Daily Naam Simran Practice:

Dedicate a specific time each day for the practice of Naam Simran. Choose a quiet space where you can sit comfortably and focus on reciting the name of the Lord. You may use a mantra or a sacred word that resonates with you, repeating it with devotion and mindfulness.

Breath Awareness with Divine Name:

Integrate the recitation of the divine name with your breath. As you inhale, silently or softly chant the name of the Lord, and as you exhale, feel the presence of the divine filling your entire being. This practice helps anchor your awareness in the present moment while deepening your connection with the divine.

Chanting with Gratitude:

Begin and end your day with a few minutes of chanting the divine name, expressing gratitude for the blessings in your life. This practice cultivates a sense of contentment and reinforces the awareness of divine presence throughout your day.

Mindful Recitation During Daily Activities:

Incorporate the recitation of the Lord’s name into your daily activities, such as cooking, cleaning, or commuting. By doing so, you transform ordinary tasks into opportunities for spiritual connection, infusing your day with divine energy.

Group Chanting Sessions:

Participate in or organize group chanting sessions, where you come together with others to recite the divine name. The collective energy of group chanting amplifies the experience, creating a powerful atmosphere of devotion and spiritual upliftment.

Reflection and Journaling:

At the end of each day, spend a few minutes reflecting on your Naam Simran practice. Journal your experiences, noting any changes in your mood, thoughts, or interactions with others. This reflection helps reinforce the practice and provides insight into your spiritual progress.

Visualization of Divine Light:

During your Naam Simran practice, visualize a radiant light emanating from your heart as you recite the divine name. Imagine this light spreading throughout your body and beyond, filling your surroundings with divine grace and love.

Integrating with Physical Movement:

Combine your Naam Simran practice with gentle physical movements, such as walking or stretching. As you move, recite the divine name, allowing the rhythm of your body to align with the sacred vibrations of the chant.

Embracing Silence and Stillness:

After your chanting session, spend a few moments in silence and stillness, allowing the energy of the divine name to settle within you. This period of silence deepens the connection with the divine and allows the radiance to emerge naturally.

Spiritual Community Involvement:

Engage with a spiritual community that shares a commitment to Naam Simran and other devotional practices. Being part of a supportive community encourages consistency in your practice and provides opportunities for shared spiritual growth.

By incorporating these practices into your daily routine, you align yourself with the transformative power of Sant Namdev’s doha. The practice of reciting the divine name becomes a source of inner radiance, filling your life with light, joy, and spiritual fulfillment. As you continue on this path, you will discover that the true beauty and shine come not from external sources but from the divine connection within, a connection that Sant Namdev so beautifully encapsulates in his timeless wisdom.

[s-historian]

Biography Of Goswami Tulsidas :

One of the greatest saints, poets, philosophers and blessed souls known to us is Goswami Tulsidas.

This saint, born in India in the 16th century, was a great devotee of Lord Ram, the incarnate Supreme Being.

Tulsidas was not an ordinary poet or saint he was an apostle of the Lord sent especially on this earth to spread the message of love, devotion and faith for the Supreme Being in the form of Sri Ram, a form that the common man could easily relate to and understand.

Tulsidas propagated the divine story of Lord Ram and made the Lord’s holy Name a household name through his writings, thereby making spiritual liberation and deliverance easily available to the common man.

Philosophy :

Bhakti (Devotion) : Tulsidas emphasized the power of selfless love and devotion to achieve spiritual liberation.

Ram Bhakti : He advocated for devotion to Lord Rama, considering Him the ultimate reality and the embodiment of divine love.

Simple Living : He promoted a simple, austere lifestyle, renouncing worldly attachments.

Compassion and Humility : Tulsidas stressed the importance of compassion, humility, and service to others.

Scriptural Authority : Tulsidas revered the Vedas, Puranas, and other Hindu scriptures, considering them guides for spiritual growth.

Social Impact :

Role of Rama : In his epic, the Ramcharitmanas, Tulsidas extols Lord Rama as the ideal king, husband, and man. He uses Rama's life and virtues to illustrate the principles of dharma (righteousness) and how one should live a virtuous life.

Inspiration for Arts and Literature : His devotional hymns and poems have inspired countless poets, musicians, and artists. His impact is evident in various art forms, including music, dance, and drama, which often draw on his themes and teachings.

A Literary Luminary :

Ramcharitmanas: The most celebrated work of Tulsidas, it narrates the life and adventures of Lord Rama, the seventh avatar of Vishnu. The poem is revered for its poetic beauty, spiritual depth, and its ability to connect with people from all walks of life.

Vinay Patrika: This work is a collection of devotional poems addressed to Lord Rama, seeking his blessings and protection. Known for its emotional intensity, the Vinay Patrika is often recited as a prayer or mantra.

Hanuman Chalisa: A popular hymn dedicated to Lord Hanuman, the monkey-god and devotee of Rama. The Chalisa is recited daily by millions of people as a form of worship and protection.

Kavitavali: A collection of poems written in Braj Bhasha, another North Indian language. The Kavitavali explores various themes, including love, devotion, and the human condition.

Gitavali: A collection of devotional songs written in Braj Bhasha, primarily focusing on the love between Krishna and Radha.

Conclusion :

Unveiling the Profound Conclusion of Goswami Tulsidas's Works.

The Climactic Ending: Exploring the Conclusion of Goswami Tulsidas's Legacy.

Decoding the Last Chapters: Understanding Goswami Tulsidas's Conclusion.

A Masterpiece's Finale: Analyzing the Conclusion in Goswami Tulsidas's Writings.

From Beginning to End: Reflecting on the Conclusion of Goswami Tulsidas's Literature.