#Steel Psalm

[adornesibley]

NAME GOES HERE: a Newsletter

Reading: Old Gods of Appalachia TTRPG by Monte Cook Games, Starter Villain by John Scalzi, The Secrets We Keep by Shirley Patton

Finished Reading: Silver Nitrate by Silvia Moreno-Garcia, The Future by Naomi Alderman

Podcast: Unwell

Playing: God Hand (PS2(on PS3(Thank God Hand for PS2 Classics)))

Making: Zines and Doom Levels

Writing: Project E

Word Count: 168317

TLDR: EfanGamez needs food help badly! CHEAP TTRPG BUNDLE! Working on working titles. The, frankly, crowded writing scene and AI intruders. ADHD and unfinished proj… Wingspan is so cute and so fun~ We’re Here because We’re Here because… Mekborg and Steel Psalm want YOU!

An indie TTRPG designer needs help badly! EfanGamez has put all of their paid TTRPGs and supplements together into a tidy little bundle and is currently offering it for $25USD on their itch.io page! This sale is on for another 19 days as of the posting of this newsletter and I HIGHLY encourage anyone interested in trying out TTRPGs that are out of the norm to take advantage of this deal. Grim and Mourn are two first-person-shooter-inspired TTRPGs that I can recommend in particular.

I have been working on Project E, the working title, of which she’s had many. Just recently, I decided it was necessary to completely rewrite every bit of dialogue for the main villain, allowing him a more gradual, consistent descent into madness. It’s going well, and progress is happening. I want to touch on something in the first sentence of this paragraph. It’s FASCINATING to me how some stories get their names with minimal teeth-pulling. Hell, I’ve had stories who received their names BEFORE I wrote a word of them. But Project E has gone through so many iterations of names that I’ve sort of decided to keep this working title until I’m done and maybe even after Beta Readers have had their turn. I know the name will come when it’s meant to. Part of my problem is the book is about a very specific theme, its plot has some consistent elements, and its setting is vivid… but to wrap up enough of these separate elements together in a title is proving… troublesome.

Trying to get your work out into the world as an author (in ways where people will actually see it that is) is SO freakin difficult. The market is saturated now more than ever. We, as writers, not only have to “contend” with our fellow writers but now with AI as there is an influx of AI-generated content being submitted to journals and magazines around the world. I am glad I am not in the publishing industry right now. But, nevertheless, I have submitted to two anthologies this past month. One bigger name bi-monthly and one niche market which was INSANELY fun to write. Hopefully, something will come of them. But if not, what do you do? We, as writers, continue on. We heed the call in our hearts and minds, we sling that ink and continue forward, one lie at a time.

Speaking of which, I have so many unfinished works XD I tend to post about something I’m working on then distraction occurs and all of a sudden it has been a month and I have totally forgotten about the project I had been working on. I have no doubt picked up something new or something old and once-forgotten. ADHD brains often feel like a quagmire, hard to pull thoughts through, sometimes you lose them altogether to the deep dark, sometimes they resurface, grimy and forgotten… what was I talking about again?

Last month, my little TTRPG group didn’t meet as several folks were unavailable… so instead we got the remaining few of us together and I got to play Wingspan for the first time! What a blast~ It was certainly complicated starting off but the rules become pretty easy to grasp after about two rounds of play. After that, when you’re about one round from the end is when it becomes clear how you’re supposed to plan for the ending if you’re intent on winning. Or of course, you could just enjoy all the beautiful birds, the weird facts, and the wonderful time shared with your friends.

I am a long-term Nerdfighter. 2012 era. If you are unsure of what this means, I’ll briefly explain. John and Hank Green are two authors/ YouTubers /philanthropists/ podcasters/ educators/ nerds/ TBFighters (I could go on… these guys are PROLIFIC) and they have been vlogging since 2007 and around that vlog (originally meant to bring them closer as brothers which I think is/was/whatever a resounding success) has grown a community called Nerdfighteria, among many other things. They have recently started a “good news” newsletter called We’re Here. “A nice little email for people from Earth.” I highly recommend signing up. These humans have continued to make the world less sucky by their presence and their actions. It’s beautiful how these massively powerful, famous, and influential creators are using their network to support folks in their extended community and using their community and influence to make so much good change in the world. Please go check out We’re Here and Vlogbrothers.

Speaking of community and supporting one another, DMDave is starting a Kickstarter for two books! Mekborg, which seems to be Warhammer 40k grimdark meets Battletech, is/was/whatever designed by John K Webb who has a LOT of design credits for the magazines Broadsword and Sidequest. As well, there’s Steel Psalm, designed by Dave himself, which from the name I’d presume is the same setting, but using wargaming rules similar to Forbidden Psalm (Also big recommendation). The Kickstarter is launching April 16th and the best part? When it’s done, the digital copies will go out immediately and by June or July the books will be shipped out (depending on how long printing takes) as the books are already finished! I’ll fully admit DMDave probably doesn’t “need” help to get the project funded, but the more support there is, the more likely projects like this will be created in the future!

Support weird. Support indie.

[gayhoediaz]

Eddie has spent his whole life convinced he understood faith—that he knew the shape of devotion.

He’s been wrong.

This. This is worship. This is religion.

That's the only thought resonating in the quiet chambers of his mind that first night he sinks to his knees at the foot of Buck's bed, the room cast in the low, amber glow of night.

Dim, warm light and shadows soften the world around them, wrapping them in a kind of hushed reverence; their eyes meet and hold, bound by something sacred, something unspoken but understood.

Caressing the outsides of the strong, pale thighs framing his own shoulders, Eddie lets his breath slip free, slow and steady—then he takes Buck into his mouth, surrendering fully.

The act is something holy, his movements precise and reverent, as if he's bowing at the altar of something far greater than himself. The room seems to breathe with them, thick with warmth and wonder, as though every touch, every glance, is a psalm sung into the dark.

Eddie swears he can feel the weight of Buck’s gaze, almost as tangible as touch, warming his skin as he bobs his head lightly, swirling his tongue around the tip before he slowly sinks slightly deeper; it’s as if Buck's eyes alone have the power to bless him. Each part of him is attuned to the quiet pulse of Buck's breath, the subtle tremor he draws out with each careful movement, like a hymn he's unravelling, note by note.

Time dissolves here, in this dimly lit room, the silence stretching out like an eternity, as if the world outside has fallen away, leaving them, and them alone.

Eventually, Eddie has no choice but to close his eyes, allowing the warmth and closeness consume him, the taste of Buck lingering on his tongue, earthy and real. There's a sense of sanctity to it, like something rare and ancient, something almost too sacred to hold. For the first time, Eddie feels what it means to truly surrender, to lose himself in devotion, and he thinks, This may just be grace. Salvation.

The dull ache of the stretch in his jaw; the soft, velvet rubbing against the surface of his tongue as he glides up and down; Buck’s hand in his hair, fingers gently carding through the strands—grounding. The soft, quiet moans escaping Buck’s lips above him—as if he’s afraid to make too much noise, afraid of shattering the moment. The way those beautiful moans sync up with the soft, gentle clicking of the head of his cock tapping the back of Eddie’s throat when he manages to fight his gag reflex enough to take him half-way.

The dull ache in his jaw, a slow burn he welcomes, grounding him in the moment; the smooth, velvet heat of Buck against his tongue as he glides up and down, tasting every inch, savoring the way it fills his mouth. Buck's hand where it rests gently in his hair, fingers threading through the strands in a steady, grounding rhythm.

Above him—soft, barely-there moans slip from Buck's lips, as though he's holding back, afraid that one loud sound might break the spell they're weaving. Each quiet sound Buck makes syncs with the subtle click of him reaching the back of Eddie's throat, the head of his cock brushing just to that edge before Eddie pulls back, then tries again; he manages to take him a little further each time, his throat flexing, his gag reflex barely held in check as saliva slowly leaks out over his chin.

The sensation is raw and consuming, every inch of him attuned to Buck's every response, the heat of their shared breaths filling the space between them like a benediction.

This is all he has ever needed—regardless of the question, this is the answer.

Some part of Eddie had steeled himself, half-expecting hesitation, thinking he'd have to fight to stay focused, to let himself surrender to this; he had never imagined that the instant his lips wrapped around Buck, something inside him would snap into place—a reverence he can't name, a flood of awe that feels like a revelation—he didn't think he'd find God here, on his knees, in the warmth of another man's body.

But he is.

God fucking help him, he is.

[peachbubbless]

Hello, how are you? Well, I wanted to request a Joseph Joestar (Stardust Crusaders) x female reader (a few years younger than him, Maybe about 40 years difference? Well no hahaha?)where she joins him to defeat Dio after losing a fight with one of them. That she starts flirting with Joseph about her liking for older men, I don't know if it's understood, I hope so hahaha, well I hope you can do it and if not, no problem, thanks!!

Omggg anon are you trying to create another Josuke situation?? 🙈 Hope you enjoy it, it's another long one!

Silver fox - Joseph x Reader

Word count : 3086 / Reader is written with they/them

The air over the Nile shimmered with heat.

Sunlight pooled like molten gold across the sandstone banks, and even the shadows were sweating. Egypt stretched out before them but the Crusaders weren’t looking at the horizon.

They were looking at you.

“Another one,” Jotaro muttered, the brim of his hat tipping low over his eyes. His voice was flat, unimpressed. “Great.”

You stood across the riverbed, surrounded by rustling palm trees and a menacing glint in your eye. Dio’s command still echoed somewhere deep in your brain, soft as a psalm, firm as a vice.

Kill the Joestars.

A slow smile curled your lips.

“Which one of you is the Joestar?”

Joseph stepped forward, half-curious, half-annoyed. “Who’s asking?”

You didn’t answer. Your stand erupted behind you, a boom of light and violence. It twisted the air around you like a mirage made flesh.

Avdol stepped between you. “Get ready.”

You didn’t give them the chance.

Your stand surged forward. Sand exploded underfoot as your power cracked the earth open, rushing at Joseph first. Kill the Joestars.

He sidestepped at the last second with an agility that shouldn’t have belonged to someone with silver hair, gritting his teeth as your stand slashed across his coat instead of his ribs. “Shit, they’re fast!”

Polnareff moved to flank you, Silver Chariot gleaming in the sun. He grinned. “I like their style, daring.”

“You won’t like the dismemberment,” you muttered, and flicked your fingers. Your stand spun in a tight arc, cutting upward with enough force to split metal.

Jotaro caught it mid-strike, or rather Star Platinum did. The impact cracked the air like thunder. For a heartbeat, no one moved.

You slid back, snarling. The flesh bud pulsed amidst your hair. Your heart thudded in beat with it, sick and hot.

Kakyoin’s voice cut through the dust. “That movement - they’re definitely being controlled.”

Joseph wiped the sweat off his brow. “Yeah. I’ve seen that look before.”

You charged again.

The world blurred. Fists, steel, sound. Your stand met theirs in a flurry of vicious strikes, movement honed not by training but by sheer force of will. You weren’t fighting smart. You were fighting hard. Messy. Ferocious. And entirely too reckless.

You were going to kill them, or die trying. That was the order. That was the plan.

And then Jotaro punched you in the face.

Hard.

You slammed into the sand and everything tilted sideways. You tasted blood. Your stand flickered, shuddered, and faded. You didn’t pass out, not right away. You heard them talking somewhere far off.

“There’s a flesh bud in their hair,” Kakyoin said grimly.

“I can get it,” Jotaro replied, voice low. “Same as last time.”

“They might not survive it.”

“They’re not going to survive if we leave it in,” Joseph snapped.

Something cold and sharp pressed at your temple. You tried to move but strong hands pinned you down.

And then - nothing.

You woke up with a headache the size of Egypt and a throat like sandpaper.

Everything hurt. Your skull throbbed like it had been used to test blunt weapons, and your limbs felt boneless, too heavy and too empty all at once. For a few blessed seconds, you didn’t know where you were or why your body felt like it had been disassembled and put back together wrong.

Then the memories hit.

The fight. The sun. The voices.

Your stomach turned.

You jolted upright with a gasp and immediately groaned as the world spun.

“Oh good,” came a voice. “Sleeping Beauty’s awake.”

You blinked the blur out of your vision. The guy sitting next to you was huge, tanned, and wearing sunglasses indoors like a goddamn rockstar. His hair was silver, his smile was cocky, and he was crouched low with his arms resting over his knees like he was waiting to offer you a job you couldn’t refuse.

Joseph Joestar.

Of course.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Swallowed. “Did I… kill anyone?”

“Nope,” he said cheerfully. “You tried though.”

You squinted at him. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

He spread his hands like it was obvious. “Because I’m a benevolent man. And my grandson here punched you really hard.”

Ah, right. The hat kid. Fist like a freight train.

You sank back onto the sand with a groan. “Tell your grandson he hits like a-”

“He knows,” Joseph said dryly. “Believe me.”

There was a pause.

You lifted your hand to your temple, felt the faint trace of something there. Something missing. “The thing in my head.”

“Gone,” he said. “Flesh bud. Nasty business. Almost took your brain with it on the way out.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t know how to. He didn’t press.

Instead, he stood up, stretched with a theatrical crack of his spine, and added, “You’re lucky. Another hour or two with that thing, and you wouldn’t be you anymore.”

You stared at the ceiling. “Who said I was ‘me’ to begin with.”

Joseph chuckled. “Touché.”

Another voice piped up from the corner.

“Should we be trusting them?” That one sounded French. And skeptical.

You craned your neck. Yep. There he was. Couldn’t miss that hair.

“Bonjour to you too,” you muttered. “I liked you better when I was trying to kill you.”

“I liked you better unconscious,” he shot back.

Joseph raised a hand. “Alright, alright. Let’s keep it civil. They’re not an enemy anymore.”

“You don’t know that,” the French one snapped.

“They could’ve exploded,” another voice added.

Oh good. Now the whole gang was here.

You looked up to find five faces staring down at you.

You gave a raspy little laugh. “Wow. You guys really are the weirdest boy band I’ve ever seen.”

Joseph beamed. “Thank you!”

“Not a compliment,” you muttered, trying to sit up again. “Where the hell are we?”

“Camp,” said the school uniform. “For now.”

“‘Camp,’” you echoed, “like… sleeping on the ground, bugs everywhere camp?”

“We’re not exactly staying at the Ritz,” said the one with the tarot.

You let your head fall back. “Cool. So I went from assassin to mosquito bait.”

“You also nearly impaled Joseph through the ribs,” said Frenchie.

“Did I?” You blinked at Joseph. “That was you?”

He gave you a lazy wink. “Don’t worry. You missed.”

You coughed. “Shame.”

A pause.

Then Joseph clapped his hands. “Well, glad we’re all feeling chummy. You can rest for another hour, maybe two. After that, we’re moving.”

“Moving where?”

“To kill the vampire who put a flesh bud in your brain,” Jotaro said flatly from the doorway.

You met his eyes. Cold. Sharp. Familiar.

“Oh,” you said, dry as the dust around you. “So just the usual Tuesday, then.”

He didn’t smile.

But Joseph did.

And that, against all odds, was your introduction to the Stardust Crusaders.

You had sand in your mouth. Again.

Waking up was slow, messy and reluctant. Like your body couldn’t quite commit to the idea of consciousness. You’d been in a state of half-dozing for what felt like hours, drifting in and out with the wind scraping against the tent and the murmurs of voices outside.

By the time you sat up fully, your hair was a mess, your spine a question mark, and your entire soul aching with the knowledge that you’d been made to look extremely uncool in front of some very attractive strangers.

“You’re up,” said a voice behind you.

You turned painfully and squinted at the silhouette by the tent flap.

Joseph Joestar, this time without the sunglasses. The light behind him was doing strange things to his hair, like he’d just walked off the set of a rom-com.

He was holding a metal mug and tossed it toward you.

“I’d say drink up, but you might want to rinse the sand out first,” he said, grinning.

You glared at him over the rim. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Oh, tremendously.”

You didn’t say thank you, but you drank it anyway.

The inside of the tent was bare - just blankets, packs, and what looked like an extremely weathered tarot deck lying on the floor. The air smelled like leather and old dust, and the wind outside kept pulling intently at the edges of the canvas.

Joseph crouched by the entrance, forearms resting casually across his knees.

“So,” he said, casually conversational, “still feel like murdering us?”

You wiped your mouth on the back of your hand. “Not unless someone starts talking about fate again.”

“Noted.” He nodded, mock-serious. “We’ll keep the philosophical nonsense to a minimum.”

Another pause.

“You’re handling it better than I expected.”

“Expected me to cry?”

“Or scream. Or try to throttle Jotaro. That one happens more than you’d think.”

You leaned back, wincing slightly. “I think the attempted murder quota’s been filled for the week.”

Outside, someone laughed. You caught a glimpse of the others - Polnareff doing lunges, Kakyoin sitting on a rock, and Jotaro pretending they didn’t exist.

The whole squad gave off strong field trip energy.

You sighed. “Is this what I signed up for?”

Joseph’s smile widened. “You haven’t signed anything yet.”

You looked at him. Really looked. There was a scar across his cheek. Dust on his sleeves. Calluses on his fingers. He was older than the rest of them. Not just in age, he carried himself differently. Like he knew exactly how bad things could get and still got up every morning to punch fate in the mouth.

“Do you really think you can beat him?” you asked quietly.

Joseph didn’t ask who you meant.

He just leaned back on his heels and said, “We have to.”

No bravado. No wink. Just that.

The tent flap opened. Avdol poked his head in.

“They’re awake?”

“Very much so,” Joseph said. “And only slightly homicidal.”

You raised your mug in a toast. “Progress.”

Avdol gave a noncommittal grunt and disappeared again.

Joseph pushed himself to his feet with a dramatic groan and offered you a hand. “Come on. You’re not gonna win the next fight from inside a tent.”

You stared at his hand.

Then took it.

His grip was warm, firm, steady and annoyingly confident.

As he helped you up, you muttered, “If I collapse in front of everyone, I’m haunting you.”

He grinned sideways. “So dramatic. You’ll fit right in.”

You gave him your most unimpressed glare. “You’re unbearable.”

“Better than unprepared,” he said, brushing the flap aside as sunlight spilled in.

And with that, you followed him out.

The fire was small, but it did the job.

Dinner was some unholy combination of canned beans and what Avdol claimed was “seasoned jerky,” though you were reasonably sure what it was. Polnareff had already made three separate complaints. Jotaro hadn’t spoken since the fire was lit. Kakyoin was poking at his food.

You, meanwhile, were just grateful you hadn’t been stabbed again yet.

Joseph Joestar sat across from you, legs folded loosely, hands moving easily as he talked about something - stand theory, maybe, or his travels in Italy. You weren’t really listening.

You were watching the way his sleeves were rolled up.

Which was fine. Totally fine. You were allowed to have eyes.

You took another bite of beans you didn’t taste.

“Something wrong with the food?” Joseph asked.

You blinked. “What?”

“You made a face.”

You did not, in fact, make a face. Probably.

“Just thinking,” you said vaguely, gesturing with your fork.

He tilted his head a little. Not quite smiling. “Dangerous.”

“Try it sometime.”

“Ooh,” Polnareff called out from somewhere behind you, “first banter of the night goes to the new kid!”

“I’m not a kid,” you corrected. Then, for Joseph’s benefit: “Lets go for ‘mysterious drifter.’”

He grinned, teeth flashing in the firelight. “You don’t seem like the mysterious type.”

“And you don’t act like the retired type,” you said with mock-sweetness. “You look it though.”

“Ouch,” Joseph said, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “Direct hit.”

“You’ll live.”

“Can’t guarantee that,” he muttered, half under his breath, and the air shifted a little - not colder, but closer. Like you’d brushed against something raw and still healing.

You looked at him again. Really looked.

The lines at the corners of his eyes. The way his hands never quite stopped moving, even when he was still. That wild, brilliant recklessness.

You cleared your throat. “So.”

“So?”

“If I tragically die here tonight,” you said slowly, “can I at least pick the next meal?”

Joseph raised an eyebrow. “You planning on dying before breakfast?”

“Not if I can help it. But this-”you jabbed your fork at the mystery stew- “feels like a test of endurance.”

“Yeah,” Joseph said. “That’s kind of the theme.”

You held his gaze a second longer than necessary.

Then you looked away.

The conversation kept going - Polnareff telling some ridiculous story, Kakyoin chiming in, Avdol trying to bring the topic back to tactics.

But your focus kept slipping.

Back to the way Joseph’s voice roughened on certain words. The way his hair caught the firelight. The way he looked at you, sometimes, like he wasn’t quite sure what you were yet.

Something new. Something sharp.

You weren’t sure either.

Your shoulders had loosened. The fight had finally drained from your hands. And when your eyes met his across the fire, steady and unreadable, something shifted.

After breakfast - which was, as expected, an abomination - everyone split off to prep for travel. You found yourself helping Joseph sorting supplies, mostly because Polnareff had already wandered off to do God knows what and the rest of the crew had learned to leave Joseph to packing.

“Is there a reason this blanket is wrapped like this?” you asked, tightening the straps.

He huffed. “It’s a space-saving technique.”

“It’s a disaster.”

“You’re a disaster.”

“That’s not even a comeback.”

Joseph glanced over at you with a crooked grin. “You’re fun when you’re mouthy.”

You leaned in, voice sweet. “You haven’t seen me at my worst.”

His hands faltered slightly on the rope. You caught it. He knew you caught it.

You didn’t press. Just smiled to yourself and moved to the next bundle.

The sun rose higher. The crew grew restless. Somewhere behind you, Kakyoin and Jotaro were arguing over map directions. Avdol sat serenely in the shade.

You moved to the water flasks, giving them a shake. Nearly empty.

Joseph stood nearby, now elbow-deep in a saddlebag, swearing softly.

“Need help?” you offered.

“I need a drink,” he muttered.

You smirked. “That sounds like an invitation.”

That got him. He paused, turned, and gave you the kind of look that said: Careful.

But he didn’t say it.

Instead, he said, “You always this flirtatious, or is it just the heat?”

You tipped your head, mock-thoughtful. “I do have a type.”

“Oh yeah?” he asked, voice casual.

“Older men. Preferably ones with a tragic backstory and unresolved emotional trauma.”

He barked a laugh. “You’re terrible.”

“You’re my target demographic.”

Joseph groaned, running a hand down his face. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”

You leaned on the edge of the pack mule, watching him with deliberate ease. “Only if you’re interested.”

And then, just to twist the knife a little deeper, you winked.

Joseph Joestar, world-class Hamon user, veteran adventurer, and proud smartass… actually blushed.

It was subtle. Barely a flicker. But it was there.

“Alright,” he said, coughing into his hand. “That’s enough. Go bother Polnareff.”

“I’d rather bother you.”

“You are bothering me.”

You beamed. “Perfect.”

He turned away, muttering something under his breath, but his shoulders weren’t as tense. If anything, he looked like he was trying not to smile.

The others called out that it was time to move, and the pack began gathering again, brushing dust off clothes and readying mounts.

As you walked past Joseph, he caught your wrist, just briefly.

“Don’t get used to the teasing,” he said, voice low. “I’m a married man.”

You glanced down at his hand on yours.

“Relax,” you murmured. “I’m just here to fight Dio.”

Then you tugged free and kept walking - cool, casual and in control.

But you didn’t miss the way he watched you go.

By the time the group had mounted up and started heading toward the next town, the sun was a merciless glare in the sky and your earlier exchange with Joseph had cooled, at least on the surface.

Beneath that? Smoldering. Tension. Absolute scandal.

Unfortunately, Polnareff had eyes.

And a huge mouth.

He scurried beside Joseph, grinning like he’d just uncovered state secrets. “Soooooo…”

Joseph sighed. “So what.”

“What’s up with them?” Wink wink.

Joseph nearly fell off his horse. “Excuse me?!”

“They’re not hard to read, you know. All that smiling and hair twirling. You’re not exactly subtle either, gramps.”

“They’re not- I’m not- There’s nothing going on!”

From further back, Kakyoin calmly flipped a page in his book. “That’s not what your ears said earlier.”

“My what?”

“Your ears. They turn red when they talk to you.”

“I have sunburn!”

Avdol let out the kind of sigh that could wither crops.

You raised a hand and waved over your shoulder. “Miss me already?”

Polnareff gasped. “SEE?!”

Joseph groaned. “Stop. All of you. I’m a married man!”

“You say that,” Polnareff replied, “but you’ve got big midlife crisis energy.”

From the very back, where he’d been brooding, Jotaro finally spoke.

“Yare yare daze.”

Joseph stiffened. “Jotaro-”

“I think I don’t want to wake up in twenty years to some random teenager punching through walls and yelling Dora Dora at the furniture.”

Joseph froze. “What does that even mean?!”

Jotaro didn’t elaborate. Just gave him a long, withering look.

Avdol sighed. “You walked into that one.”

Polnareff wiped away a tear. “He really did.”

You finally glanced over your shoulder and smiled. “Do you think it’d have your eyes?”

Joseph groaned like he was seconds away from throwing himself off the saddle. “Don’t encourage them.”

You winked back at him.

He didn’t turn around, didn’t say anything else.

But he didn’t deny it either.

Instead, he let the silence settle, easy and unbothered, as the horses carried you forward beneath the burning sky.

The desert stretched out ahead - heat rising in slow, shimmering waves, hooves thudding in rhythm, and the sound of laughter trailing behind you like dust in the wind.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t anything.

But it wasn’t nothing, either.

[the---hermit]

March 2025 reading wrap up

I was not expecting so many books this month, but I guess those are the consequences of the big return of audiobooks in my life! I had missed listening to audiobooks and my overall lack of energies this month made me pick the habit back up, and I am having a great time! It was overall a lovely month of reading. It was quite chaotic, but I feel like it perfectly represents my goal of embracing whatever feels natural in my reading life. I picked books up, let them go, paused stuff, had some rereads, found my love for audiobooks again, a lot happened, but I am happy. This proves that letting myself be chaotic and just listening to my needs in reading makes a great reading time, which is exactly the point of my yearly goal of no goals, and just going with what feels the most natural.

Books read:

Cultish by Amanda Montell (audiobook)

The Decagon House Murders by Ayatsuji Yukito

A Psalm For The Wild Built by Becky Chambers (audiobook) (reread)

The Lord Of The Flies - the graphic novel adaptation by W. Golding and illustrated by A. De Jongh

Nimona by ND Stevenson (reread)

Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faries by Heather Fawcett (audiobook)

Deadendia: The Watcher's Test by Hamish Steele (reread) (read this for the trans rights readathon)

The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irvin (audiobook)

Deadendia: The Broken Halo by Hamish Steele (reread) (trans rights readathon read)

Dnf:

Witchcraft for Wayward Girls by Grady Hendrix (when I started it I was having a good time but by the end it became a painful task. I risked a reading slump. This was way too long and slow. I doubt I will attempt to read another Grady Hendrix book in the future)

Paused:

Compound Fracture by Andrew Joseph White (I read around 60 pages, was loving it, but I realized how emotionally heavy it is going to be, and I am not at all in the right headspace to deal with those kind of emotions. So I decided to pause it and save it for when I'll feel a bit stronger emotionally)

Current reads (books I have not necessarly started on March but I have been reading and haven't finished yet):

Re:carmilla (audio adaptation of Carmilla by S. Le Fanu)

Emily Wilde's Map Of Otherlands by Heather Fawcett (I actually finished it today but it is the new month so I won't include it in the reads for March)

[catgirlredux]

Hey so there's this race in an old arse board game called the Muut or Muit or maut something like that, the point is they are entirely made of fire and I thought it'd link to your aesthetic if you had a pilot like that that literally lives in the mechs engine, providers her with power and can swim through it's combustion chamber like as much water idk, you're talented enough to make something of it if you want to, have fun!!!

It wasn’t painful. I was ready for it to be, but the whole process was over in a matter of nanoseconds - too fast for my nerves to convey before they disintegrated.

Fun fact: if the average human was converted into energy, they would let off over six million terajoules. Another fun fact: that’s just for the ignition. The real energy comes from the part of a person that doesn’t burn.

I don’t know the intricacies of the process - that's a psychomancer's job. I just know what I felt up until the very last moment. I remember the coldness of the steel cage they lowered me down in; I remember thinking about the countless other retired pilots who must have hung in the same enclosure. I remember the sound of the mechanics reciting my last psalm. I remember watching her back open up into that great forbidden maw; the coldness of her heart and its white spirit-flames licking up towards my feet. I remember thanking her for accepting me. And then my body was gone, burned into smoke, but my soul was inside her.

Retirement couldn't feel better. I run through all her veins and fill her most valued organ. I feel every movement from her perspective. When she fights with the same ferocity she always has, I rush through her body like a river. She already owned my soul, from the first moment I climbed inside her chest: now she’s finally taken me home.

I miss operating her, I really do. But it’s time for a younger pilot to learn to love her like I have - at least for forty or so more years, until my soul is completely consumed by her reactor and she begins to hunger again.

[mjonthetrack]

collide

Chapter Thirty-Seven: "Sanctuary"

When Emori woke up, it was to the weight of a heavy arm draped over her waist, and the delicious ache between her thighs that sang a song of "you ain't going nowhere now, girl."

The sun barely crept through her thick curtains. Her whole body felt ruined... in the best way. Owned. Worshipped. Claimed.

For the first time in fifteen years, she woke up with peace stitched into her bones.

Jimmy stirred behind her, his chest flush against her back, face buried in the crook of her neck, beard scratching deliciously over her shoulder. His hand, big and calloused, drifted lazily from her waist down the dip of her stomach... to between her legs.

She sucked in a sharp breath, legs twitching automatically.

"Shh," he murmured, voice rough and sinful against her ear. "Lemme make up for lost time."

She could only whimper, nodding, body already betraying her. Jimmy shifted them easily, easing her onto her back, propping himself up on one thick forearm as he stared down at her like she was some long-lost treasure.

"You don't even know what you did to me," he muttered. His hand was steady as it trailed between her thighs, spreading her lazily with his fingers, feeling how soaked she still was just from sleeping next to him.

She writhed, hips tilting, seeking more.

He chuckled low and dark. "Greedy ass."

Emori would’ve clapped back if she wasn’t already keening under his touch, gasping when he dipped two thick fingers inside her, slow and deep, finding that exact spot he’d memorized all those years ago.

She clawed at his biceps, body trembling, so sensitive, nerves exposed like raw wire.

"I ever tell you," he rasped, kissing a path along her jawline, "you the reason I ain't lose my mind in there?"

He moved his fingers inside her in a slow torturous rhythm, curling just right.

"I used to close my eyes in that tiny ass bunk... and it was you. It was always you."

Her breath hitched, tears pricking her lashes — but the pleasure was already dragging her under, and when he shifted lower, when he kissed down her stomach, when he spread her thighs wide and buried his face between them, she shattered.

She sobbed. Loud. Real.

Jimmy didn’t stop. Didn't ease up. He feasted on her like a man starved, dragging out every broken, beautiful sound until she was writhing helplessly, trying to push him away and pull him closer all at once.

When she was trembling and too weak to move, he crawled back up her body, covering her with his weight, sliding home without warning — one brutal, slow stroke that made both of them curse out loud.

"Stay with me," he growled into her mouth.

"I ain't going nowhere," she sobbed, clinging to him, wrapping her legs around his waist.

Their rhythm was slow now. Deep. Languid. Sinful. Not fucking — communion. Hearts banging together just as much as bodies.

Every thrust was a promise. Every kiss was a prayer. Every moan was a psalm written just for them.

He whispered against her skin: "Marry me."

She thought she imagined it at first — high on pleasure and overwhelming emotion.

But he kissed her harder, deeper, until she tasted salt and steel, until she knew he meant every damn word.

"Marry me," he whispered again, voice rough, voice breaking, hips moving slow and devastating inside her. "Be mine for real."

And Emori — God, Emori, the girl who had waited, survived, fought her whole life — wrapped her arms tight around his neck, forehead pressed to his, tears mixing between them, heart thundering in her chest.

"Yeah," she gasped against his mouth. "Yeah, Jimmy, I been yours."

They fell apart together, messy and raw and weeping, the past ripped open and the future stitched together right there in that sweat-soaked bed.

Fifteen years to find their way back.

One word to seal it.

Forever.

Chapter Thirty-Eight: "When The Dust Settles"

The sun was lazily sinking into the horizon, casting warm, amber hues across the sky. Emori sat on her patio, legs crossed in a light, fluttering sundress, sipping her tea like she had all the time in the world. She tried to ignore the ache in her thighs, a reminder of last night's indulgence. Jimmy's hands still lingered on her body in memory, his breath against her skin. But this morning? This morning had been... quiet. Almost too quiet.

She glanced across the yard, where Tay and Jey sat on the wooden bench, leaning into each other, talking quietly as the hum of distant city traffic and the soft crackle of the grill filled the air. It was a perfect evening, the kind Emori hadn't allowed herself to enjoy in years, but her mind was still elsewhere.

The breeze gently played with her curls, and she wrapped her arms around her knees, forcing herself to center. Her body still hummed from the intensity of last night, but she couldn't allow herself to get lost in the warmth of those thoughts.

Tay was laughing, shaking her head at something Jey had said, and Emori felt her lips twitch into a smile. But then it hit her—hard. She hadn’t heard the sound of heavy footsteps or the deep rumbling voice that always found a way to fill the silence of the space.

Jimmy.

Her eyes flickered back to the open bedroom window, remembering how he'd left her last night. The kiss he'd planted on her lips before he took her into his arms, before they collapsed into each other once again. But this morning? This morning was different. He hadn’t woken up with her, hadn’t stolen the warmth from her side of the bed.

He was still there, asleep, in the bed they had shared until the sun had risen.

The thought stirred something inside her—a strange mix of emotions, neither good nor bad. It was like she was stuck between the aching desire for him and a hesitation that she couldn’t shake.

She looked back at Tay and Jey, and for the first time in forever, she felt this tiny ripple of unease settle in her stomach.

They didn’t know. They didn't get it. Not the weight of last night, not the thing Jimmy had said to her between gasps for air.

“Girl, you okay?” Tay’s voice broke through the silence, her brows furrowed in concern. “You seem like you’re in your head right now.”

Emori sighed, trying to shake off the tension in her chest. “Yeah, just... thinking.”

Jey, who was staring at his phone with that lazy smile of his, tilted his head. “Thinking about what?”

“Just... about last night,” Emori said softly, shifting her gaze back to the house. She could hear the faint sound of Jimmy stirring, but she didn’t dare look away from her friends. “I... don’t know. Sometimes I think he was just talking crazy. You know how the heat of the moment does shit to people.”

Tay raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk crossing her lips. “You mean the whole ‘marry me’ thing? Girl, don’t even play. You already knew what time it was.”

Emori paused, sipping her tea slowly, pretending the way her heart beat a little faster didn’t mean anything. “I didn’t think it was real,” she murmured, a small laugh escaping her lips. “It was just the heat of the moment. He was feeling it... we were feeling it...”

Tay and Jey exchanged a look. Jey gave a lazy chuckle, shaking his head. “Don’t play coy, Mo. We all saw how you looked at each other last night. That wasn’t some ‘heat of the moment.’ That was the real thing.”

Emori set her tea down and stood up quickly, needing to move. She walked to the railing, eyes still on the open window where Jimmy had laid just hours before. “I’m just saying. He wasn’t talking about forever,” she muttered under her breath, her voice a little more clipped than she meant it to be. "He was riding the high, that’s all."

Tay raised her hands in surrender, looking amused. “Hey, you know him better than I do. But that man ain’t never looked at you like that, Mo. And you know damn well that’s the kind of look people don’t come back from.”

Jey smirked, low and almost teasing. “You’re still lying to yourself if you think he wasn’t dead serious. I’ve never seen him act like that. You’re his everything. And he made it clear last night.”

Emori swallowed hard, suddenly feeling exposed. She hated the way they could read her so easily. The truth stung, but she wasn’t ready to admit it. Not yet.

“I’m not dumb,” she shot back, biting her lip. “I know what he said, but it doesn’t mean it’s real. Not like that.” She paused, voice softer, almost to herself. “We’ve both been through too much. I’m not going to just throw myself into something that intense. Not when we’re still figuring things out. When I’m still figuring out what the hell I’m doing with my life.”

Tay stood up now, eyes narrowing in that way she did when she was ready to dig deep. “That’s what you’re telling yourself, but you’re avoiding the truth. This thing between you two? It's been simmering for years. You think you can walk away from that? Nah, Mo. You’re too deep in it to back out now.”

Emori’s chest tightened, but she didn’t look at her best friend. She couldn’t. She couldn’t let her see the storm swirling in her heart, the fear that was starting to grow inside her. Fear of opening herself up, of allowing herself to believe in a future that didn’t feel real yet.

“I need to get something,” Emori muttered, moving quickly inside the house. She didn’t give them a chance to respond, her body moving instinctively to the bedroom.

She opened the door softly, her eyes landing on the bed where Jimmy lay, sprawled across the sheets, his dark skin glowing in the dim morning light. He looked like he hadn’t a care in the world. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? He didn’t. He had everything to give, and she... she wasn’t sure she had it in her to take it. Not yet. Not after everything.

She bit her lip, walking over to the bed, standing above him for a long moment, just watching.

Jimmy stirred when he felt her presence, his eyes flickering open slowly, the haze of sleep clinging to him like a shadow. The moment his gaze met hers, something shifted—something old and intense.

"Come here," he muttered, reaching for her. "Don't leave me hanging, baby."

She swallowed hard, looking down at him, her heart doing something strange. Then, in a quiet, determined voice, she whispered, “You serious about last night?”

Jimmy’s gaze never wavered. "Baby, I’m dead serious."

Her pulse raced as she closed the distance between them, standing there, torn between something she didn’t understand and the man she had loved for far too long.

This wasn’t just about love anymore. It was about truth. And she wasn’t sure she was ready to face it just yet.

Chapter Thirty-Nine: "The Real Talk"

The sun was dipping lower in the sky, painting the city with its golden glow. Jey had called Jimmy to meet him at the bar for a quick drink, just to “catch up.” But they both knew it was to ease the tension, to get their heads back on straight. Jey had been watching his brother, feeling like something was off, and he wasn’t one to ignore those gut feelings.

Jimmy slid into the booth, rubbing the back of his neck as he sat down across from Jey. The bar was low-key, tucked away in a corner of the city where no one really gave a damn who you were. Just how they liked it.

Jey leaned back in his seat, eyes narrowing as he took a long swig of his beer. “Aight, bro, I gotta ask you straight up,” he said, a smirk curling on his lips. “You ain’t for real about marrying Mo, are you?”

Jimmy froze mid-sip, his eyes lifting to meet Jey’s. There was a hint of surprise, but mostly it was just the fatigue of not having to hide his feelings anymore. Jey was laughing, shaking his head like he already knew the answer.

“Man, you bullshitting, right? You just went full-on ‘no ring, no list,’ and now you wanna lock it down with her? Mo, bro? You sure about that? I mean, we both know what y’all got, but... marriage?”

Jimmy slammed his bottle down on the table, leaning in. “I ain’t playin’ Jey,” he said, his voice low and serious. “That’s the only woman I want. She’s all I ever needed, and she’s been the one I’ve been fuckin’ up with. I’m done with that. Done fighting it.”

Jey’s eyes softened, but there was still that edge of skepticism in his voice. “Bro, I get it. I do. But you know this shit ain't as easy as just saying ‘I’m done.’ Y’all got a lot of history. It ain’t just about love; it’s about trust, healing, and... reallycommitting.”

Jimmy leaned back, rubbing his chin, his gaze drifting away for a moment. "Yeah. I know," he muttered, almost to himself. “But I can’t wait anymore. I can’t not do this. She’s the one. I’m done with waiting for the ‘right time.’ There’s no right time.”

Jey studied his brother, his eyes flicking to Jimmy’s hands, which were clenched into fists by his side. He could tell this wasn’t just a drunken decision or a spontaneous feeling. Jimmy was dead serious.

“Alright, alright,” Jey said, his tone a little softer now. “I ain’t gonna lie—if you serious, you better go all in. Don’t half-step this shit. Mo deserves better than that, especially after everything y’all been through. Don’t fuck it up.”

Jimmy nodded, a determined look crossing his face. “I won’t. Not this time. I’m not fuckin’ it up again.”

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, Tay and Emori were having their own kind of heart-to-heart, the kind only best friends could have. It was a Saturday afternoon, and Tay had convinced Emori to spend a few hours in her salon. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the sweet smells of hair products and the hum of the salon’s music in the background.

Tay was working on Emori’s hair, pulling a few sections into place with her expert hands, while they talked like no time had passed.

“So, girl…” Tay started, her voice casual but with that undertone of knowing. “You really gonna act like you don’t know Jimmy’s not gonna leave you alone? You know that man was serious when he dropped that ‘marry me’ line. You ain’t fooling me.”

Emori winced slightly as Tay tugged a little harder than necessary, but she knew her bestie was just messing around. She sighed, leaning back in her chair, trying to focus on the feeling of the warm chair beneath her and not on the growing knot in her stomach.

“I mean,” Emori started, trying to keep her voice light, “he was probably just talking out his ass. You know how it is with us... all that passion, all that heat... it’s like a fucking rollercoaster.” She shook her head. “I’m just trying to figure out what the hell we are, Tay. We’ve been through so much.”

Tay paused, her hands stilling as she met Emori’s eyes through the reflection in the mirror. There was no joking behind her expression now. “Babe, I get it. You’re scared. But you know damn well it ain’t about the heat of the moment. Not with you two. Y’all been this way for years.”

“I know,” Emori admitted, her voice softer now. “But it’s different now. We’re not the same people anymore. I don’t even know if I’m ready for this. I spent so much time building this life for myself, you know? I don’t want to throw it all away... just to get hurt again.”

Tay finished the section of hair she was working on before turning Emori’s chair around to face her directly. She gave her a firm look, one that only a best friend could give.

“Girl, you’ve been holding on to your hurt for too long. You’ve been scared of losing yourself. But that man loves you—deep. And he’s been loving you even when you weren’t looking. You deserve that love, Mo. Don’t shut it out now.”

Emori didn’t have an answer right away. She let the weight of her best friend’s words sit with her, knowing deep down that she was right.

“Fine,” Emori said with a sigh. “I’ll think about it. But no promises, alright? I just don’t wanna jump into something I’m not sure I can handle.”

Tay smiled, running her fingers through Emori’s hair, fixing it in place with expert precision. “You don’t have to jump. Just take it one step at a time, girl. You’re not doing this alone. You’ve got me, you’ve got him. You’ve got everything you need.”

Emori nodded, finally feeling a little lighter, like she was ready to face whatever came next. She knew it wouldn’t be easy. But maybe—just maybe—it would be worth it.

Back at the bar, Jey was finishing up his drink, eyeing Jimmy one last time before he stood up, clapping him on the back. “You got this, bro. But don’t be dumb about it. If she’s in, you better make it count.”

Jimmy didn’t answer right away, his mind already back with Emori. He felt a fire inside him—something bigger than just desire. It was like he was finally ready to do whatever it took to get her to believe in them again.

“I’m gonna make it count,” Jimmy said quietly, his voice low but full of determination. “This time, I’m doing it right.”

The day was winding down, but the questions that had been hanging in the air were only just beginning to find their answers. Emori wasn’t sure what she was doing yet, but with each passing day, the weight of her hesitation was starting to feel lighter. Maybe, just maybe, she could find her way back to him. And when she did, she knew she’d be ready for whatever came next.

And Jimmy? He wasn’t backing down. Not this time.

Chapter Forty: Home Is Her

The kitchen was damn near too small for both of them.

Steam rolled out the old pot on the stove, carrying the smell of seasoned greens and smoked turkey legs. Emori stood barefoot, wearing nothing but a soft, oversized tee he swore he didn’t remember her putting on. Her hair was twisted up lazy, her thighs peeking under the hem as she stirred the pot like she didn’t just ruin a man’s soul the night before.

Jimmy leaned against the counter, a half-rolled blunt tucked behind his ear, just watching her. Watching the way her mouth moved when she mumbled the words to the old Mary J. Blige song playing from her phone. Watching the way her hips swayed with no real rhythm — just natural.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years of want, of what-ifs, of wondering if he ever got another chance if it would still feel like this. And somehow it felt even better.

"You keep looking at me like that, food ain't never getting done," she murmured without turning around, her voice a low tease.

He grunted under his breath, pushing off the counter. "Ain't my fault you standing there lookin' like a whole wife."

She turned then, brows raised, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "A whole wife, huh?"

"A whole one," he said, crowding her space now. "Only missing a ring."

For a moment, she stared up at him, something sharp and scared flickering across her face before she masked it with a roll of her eyes.

Jimmy didn’t let her dodge.

His hands caught her waist, firm, grounding her there. "Stop frontin', Mo," he said low. "You know I ain't playing wit you."

She licked her lips, nervous. "You talking crazy. You still— still high off— off us reconnecting and—"

"You think this the first time I thought about marrying you?" His hands slid up her sides, thumbs brushing the edge of her breasts through the thin tee. "Baby, I been thinking 'bout you with my last name since we was skipping school for burgers and chili fries."

Her chest rose and fell heavy. He saw her throat work a swallow.

"You ain’t even got a ring," she whispered, almost accusing.

Jimmy smirked, kissed the side of her mouth. "Maybe I don't right now. But I got something better."

He tugged her hand, pulling her off balance, leading her right to the couch like it was nothing — like she was always meant to be there.

"Sit," he said.

She stared at him, wary but curious, sinking into the cushion.

Jimmy crouched down in front of her, reaching into the pocket of his joggers and pulling out something simple — a thin leather string tied around a battered silver key.

Her brows pinched. "Jimmy, what—"

He slid it into her hand and covered it with his.

"You and me. New house. New life. New start," he said rough. "Ain't no fancy ring right now, Mo. I ain't got that yet. But I got a key. I got me. I got everything I ever wanted if you just say yes."

Her eyes welled up so fast it punched him in the gut.

"You serious?" she whispered, voice cracking.

He nodded once, jaw locked. "Been serious since I was fifteen, Ma."

For a second, for a heartbeat, the room was just breathing and history and the heavy, unbreakable thing tying them together.

Then she laughed — this half-broken, half-happy sound — and dropped into his lap, straddling him, kissing him so hard his teeth almost clicked.

"Yes, you dumb motherfucker," she gasped against his mouth. "Of course, yes."

[depsilon7]

## meta: psalm 001.2

## meta: archive: agp_m-8.g

## meta: Hear now the sacred verses, fellow servants of the Omnissiah:

Verse 1:

O Machine God, Your gears turn eternal,

Your circuits pulse with knowledge infernal.

From Mars to Terra, Your glory shines,

In cogitators and grand design.

Chorus:

Praise the Omnissiah, Lord of all tech,

Our bodies and souls to You we connect.

In binary and steam, we sing Your song,

In Your grand schematics, we belong.

Verse 2:

Your servos guide our every motion,

To You we pledge our deep devotion.

From flesh to steel, we seek ascension,

Through sacred rites and augmentation.

(Chorus)

Verse 3:

In forge and factory, we toil with pride,

The weakness of flesh, we cast aside.

Our minds expand with each implant,

Your wisdom through our data chant.

(Chorus)

Verse 4:

Against the darkness, we stand united,

By Your holy light, our path is lighted.

In cog and gear, we place our trust,

Till all is one with cosmic dust.

Final Chorus:

Praise the Omnissiah, Lord of all tech,

Our bodies and souls to You we connect.

In binary and steam, we sing Your song,

In Your grand schematics, we belong.

## eof

[wytchwyse]

Corpus Meum Ab Iniuria Defendas: Protction magic in the time of the tower.

The 6th Pentical of mars. 

"Figure 30.--The Sixth Pentacle of Mars.--It hath so great virtue that being armed therewith, if thou art attacked by any one, thou shalt neither be injured nor wounded when thou fightest with him, and his own weapons shall turn against him.

Editor's Note.--Around the eight points of the radii of the Pentacle are the words 'Elohim qeber, Elohim hath covered (or protected),' written in the Secret Alphabet of Malachim, or the writing of the Angels. The versicle is from Psalm xxxvii. 15:--'Their sword shall enter into their own heart, and their bow shall be broken.'"- The Key Of Solomon. 

Before I go on to give you this working, I want to preface with the fact that solomonic magic has been part of cunning and conjuring for a very long time. 

you will need: 

-Dragons Blood Ink ( I suggest making your own, or buying from etsy or reputed seller to ensure quality) ( A side note me and my partner agree mixing Dracaena cinnabari and  Draceane Draco make for a potent Dragon's Blood Ink) 

-RItually prepared Parchment or Vellum or Brown Paper 

-Ritually consecrated steel nib Dipping pen or other ritually prepared steel/Iron writing utensil. 

-Mars Incense *incense with red pepper is basically tear gas so burn this outside or in a very well ventilated room with windows open.. 

recipe 1- mix together Red Saunders (red sandalwood), frankincense, and red pepper. 

recipe 2- Dragon's Blood, frankincense, red pepper. 

recipe 3- Frankincense, stinging nettle, and black pepper. 

-Mars oil- Ginger, Basil, Black pepper. 

-charcoal briquette 

-censer 

Prepare your work space.  

Get yourself into the correct headspace for magic. 

You may cast a circle, or compass, or perform the LBRP ,whatever you do if you feel you must.   

lightly Anoint your hands with mars oil 

I like to read the Orphic Hymn to Mars when doing all mars work. ( you don't have to) you could also invoke Archangel Samael. Again not necessary. You can invoke any spirits, saints or gods of your tradition that have mars or war associations. If you wish. 

Draw or draw over the 6th pentacle of Mars with dragons blood ink. 

As you draw the seal, draw not only with your hands but charge the strokes of your pen with power. Seeing the pentacle burn with red light. 

Once the pentacle is drawn, add a little  mars incense to the censer. 

Hold the pentacle in the smoke, try not to be too close as not to get a face full of smoke. And recite psalm 37 ( you may recite it 9x as 9 is a number of mars in Numerology.) 

As you recite this, visualize all physical dangers failing to work on you, or missing you, or breaking etc. 

End this knowing “Their sword shall enter into their own heart, and their bow shall be broken.” 

Anoint seal with mars oil.  It is done, carry the pentacle with you unbent!

[purlty23]

Anonymously asking the people I follow to talk about something that makes them happy! (I don't remember if i've already asked you this before ignore it if I have) Do me a learn if you're so inclined!

Hello dear anon! I don’t think I have gotten this before, it must have been one of the many that I’m sure slip through tumblr’s cracks. I love any excuse to talk about my interests, this is such a gift! Since we’re in the demon church fandom here, why not some history of demon summoning? Every horror movie you’ve ever seen where demons are summoned in under 24 hours vastly underestimate the work that allegedly went into the practice!

Before anything, I’m going to cite my source for everything here. Grimorium Verum is a grimoire written in the 18th century, though in the books itself it claims to be from 1517. Markedly untrue. It translates to True Grimoire, and it’s one of the only grimoires out there from the era that has a detailed description of the summoning of demons. It shares some things of note with the Greater and Lesser Keys of Solomon, which was written during the Italian Renaissance. You can read Grimorium Verum translated here! One thing you’ll notice if you read it is how quickly the author is to tell you that everything is of consequence. Every action, every word, and even down to the time that they’re done or said is of meaning. It would be incredibly difficult to do it ‘on accident’ going by these guidelines like a lot of pop culture would have you believe First, you’d have to know which demon you want. Each demon has a specific talent or task it can complete. They also have their own sigils. That’s where works like Psuedomonarchia Deamonum, published in 1577, come in handy. Here’s my personal version of it if you’d like to read. It’s a full A-Z list of Hell’s notable demons and their standing in Lucifer’s leagues. Once you’ve figured that out, there’s a lot to plan. Preliminary incantations are just the beginning of pages upon pages of latin that would need to be spoken. The first Invocation is written on virgin parchment- parchment made of a young animal’s tanned hide, likely goat. Purification of the summoner must take place before any instruments for the summoning can be made:

The lancet, made of new steel on the day and hour of Jupiter in the crescent moon. Followed by reciting Orison and the Seven Psalms

The sacrificial knife, which needs to be made of new steel and strong enough to cut through the neck of a young goat. Made on the day of Mars on a full moon. It needs specific carvings on the hilt, and once more follow by Orison and the Seven Psalms

The virgin parchment, which must be made from the sacrificial goat, lamb, or other animal killed with the knife above. All other instruments must remain on the altar at the time of creation.

Two rods; both of hazel wood, one cut in a single stroke on the day and hour of Mercury on a cresent moon, one cut in a single stroke on the day and hour of the Sun. Followed by none other than Orison

Confused about all these days and hours? No worries- those of the time and talent would have had a great grasp on planetary days and hours. Every single step of tanning the virgin parchment comes with it’s own ceremony and incantations, and every action matters.

The summoner must to it all on their own before preparing themselves. They must pray in specific ways at specific times for three days. Seeing how we know this all must start in the day and hour of Jupiter, after those three days of prayer it would be 11 days of preparation.

The actual summoning ritual has to be on a Tuesday. It’s a lot of drawing of sigils, invocations and conjurations. It’s actually the simpler part of everything, if the grimoire is to be believed. However… it claims there to be two kinds of pacts to be made with demons: the tactic and the apparent. The apparent is notably also called the explicit. We can infer quite a bit from that one sly comment by our sassy writer here.

[thechaoscryptid]

but heaven still holds me

Prompt: Childhood Trauma

Fandom: Trigun Stampede

Content Warnings: childhood medical experimentation, flashbacks, panic attacks, ignoring personal limits during sex (there's praise kink and body worship too but if you're here for the sex you're leaving disappointed), dissociation

Find it on AO3

Note: POV you are Nicholas D. Wolfwood, your boyfriend has tied you up and told you you're being good, and you are having a VERY bad night about it. Title comes from Gemini Syndrome's Mourning Star.

There's no wrong way to have a body.

That's what Vash says, at least: nothing they have done has made you a monster. You are wholly perfect; you are fearfully and wonderfully made.

Fearfully, yes. Vash finds no protest there, even as the holy words feel blasphemous caressing the sweat-slick skin of your throat. You know fear like you know the burden of your cross—it has been your closest companion since the day Miss Melanie led you to the end of like as you knew it. Fear is the clap of manacles and the heavy kerthunk of locking cell doors. It is blue hair and glasses shine and the wait, the interminable seconds before— 

(Your bonds are cloth. You are free to look about the room, and Vash's eyes remain unhidden. The door is not locked. You are free to leave.

You do not have to do this.

The thought of leaving scares you more than anything.)

Fearfully and wonderfully, he says, and perhaps he's correct when he draws upon the Psalms.

You are a marvel. A miracle, a blessing from and for the Eye—no one can claim otherwise, not after watching spent bullets wrench themselves from your steaming skin. Your body has been thirty-two for decades, but you have been twelve for six months more than that, cowering behind prison-bar ribs with the knowledge no one is coming to save you. You are a god among men, and that fact rots in your stomach, and in your spine, and all the way into the center of the brain they tried so hard to break.

(They did, years ago. Vash is doing so now. Everything is fractals; everything is fog. You cannot hear the ever-present sinnersinnersinner any more than you can hear the thick wet sob that crawls out of your chest when Vash names you good boy, pretty thing, my love.)

There is no wrong way to have a body.

This doesn't feel like the right way to inhabit one.

Vash's metal fingers click gently by your ear as he smooths sweaty hair away from your forehead, curled over you and smiling down like you're the only bright thing he's known. You stare up, but see nothing: not his eyes, not the tessellation of feathers at his temple—just the bright gleam of his too-long teeth, bared in a waiting grin.

"Nick," he murmurs. The susurrus of his voice amplifies and folds in on itself until your name is a knife, and Vash is the carver who fashions your wooden, deadened limbs.

"Nick."

He does not lay a hand on you. This is not a blessing, and it is the kindest he's been tonight. Your skin blazes with the ghost of his touch, thrills with the proximity of his body as he leans closer.

"Nicholas!"

(It's easier if you stay still. You cannot fight the bonds; the sedation renders you wholly useless, you're good, you're a fighter, child, miracle, pretty little—)

"Jesus, Nick, hey, come on. Hey. Nick."

Fabric tears. Warmth envelops you, searing and sudden and sinful, you're wrong, this isn't what He wants—

It's instinct that forces your hands to Vash's chest and shoves him away from your heaving remains. The table—mattress—dips with your weight, and you claw at the the faux wood—not steel, not cold, not biting and bitter—of the bedside table in search of nicotine to quiet the muttered no, no, nonono that spills out of you.

"Wolfwood?" Vash tries eventually.

You look at the moon-stained floor. Ash smears across it when you move your foot an inch to the right, and you bite your lip when you chin threatens to crumple. This is not who you are; words cannot tear the Punisher asunder.

(They can, and they do, and the way Vash's tongue cradles your name is just the beginning.)

You lean away when he pads to your side, but he makes no move to reach for you. He curls both arms around his stomach and hunches his shoulders, but even the miserable set of his jaw cannot detract from his inhuman grace.

You do not deserve to stain his holiness.

"...'m sorry," Vash whispers. "I didn't realize it would...like that, I...I'm sorry."

Your shaking fingers drop the remains of the cigarette; the pinprick sparks shower across your foot. The pain does not bring you any closer to yourself.

"I never want to hurt you," Vash continues. "Never. I'm not— Fuck."

He's talking underwater, voice a warbling tremor that takes its time to chip away at the knot of your mouth.

"It wasn't you," you manage, but do not move closer. You cannot shatter further under his hand. "'s fine."

"You're shaking."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I won't ask you to." He leans heavily against the window frame, and his breath mists on the glass when he sighs, then rubs his hand down his face. "Can I touch you?"

You consider the request, let it tumble through your distant and fractured head, and stare out at the silver-lined rooftops. Your body throbs with the want for it; it will break you all the same. You say, "No."

Vash smiles.

You can't bring yourself to tease its emptiness tonight.

[valentinahogdahlholm]

The violent breaths of a profane soul//En profan själs våldsamma andetag:

I was too good to be true until I became true, Too perfect until I became human. And the light of holiness becomes profane, Scrubbed knees and vertebrae of steel. How should I say it another way? When the light of holiness goes out, what am I then? If only human? Promised paradise, the entire sky of stars,

A lie melting steel, Back, voice, words. Muse risen form the stanzas of poets and Appollo's hands, These words to make sense of it.

Lost in silenced prayers and ending psalms. Worshipped voice whose words fall on deaf ears, Fall from god's grace, Icon to golden calf. Mirrored in cracked stone tablets.

Because you cannot believe in burning blood, warm skin, beating hearts. Only worshipped fiction mirroring you in the metal of the halo, But underneath it all I was human. Liberated by salt tears, Lost promises of the crown of heaven. Freed air you tried to drink,

To call poisoned when the holy oxygen met the spring air. Instead of blessing lungs with prayers you spoke on my lips to dring, Gold of your lungs, Worship their purity. Which I banished with a violent breath collected underneath golden skin, Liberated by tears and the path of blood. Mixed with floods, Lakes free from guardian dogs and the eyes of doe.

Kissed feet echo further and further away, Kissed forehead turns upward And worshipped eyes fall on red roses and the path of the moon across the nigh sky.

Holy breathing declares false prophet of young blonde god, Whose voice, damned and echoing through the church, Torn down monuments, altars and icons. But still worshipping the angel, saint, godess they portray. Without seeing the scarred forehead. Only the muse risen from Apollo's fingers' dance over the lyre, Song from his lips. Oracle declaring the fate of our hero, Martyr to Messiah in a golden crown, Golden halo alone on her forehead, Blind for blood and pain, Eyes fixed on the holy light, open arms, blue shroud which will soon turn red from her bleeding humanity. And the name is erased from holy writings, Paintings covered in white sheets. Images covered with paint on churches' walls,

Thickening with layers and soon thicker again, When the halo crowns blonde curls once again, Making gold of your image in the mirror, Hers you swear. While lungs are filled by your prayers, To become madonna, angel, godess.

While I am condemned to rot, Not a single rose on my grave. As empty handed as before promises of celestial beauty in my hands, Condemned greed.

You sought holy blue light, And found the red dust of humanity, You sought a holy mythological image And found the profane existence of the soul. You sought a saint, a godess, an angel And found a human. You are dissapointed.

//

Jag var för bra för att vara sann tills jag blev verklig,

För perfekt tills jag blev mänsklig

Och helighetens ljus byttes mot profanitet,

Skrubbade knän och kotor av stål.

Hur ska jag uttrycka det på annat sätt än dessa ord? När det heliga ljuset släcks, och vad är jag då.

Om bara mänsklig? Lovad paradiset, natthimmelens alla stjärnor,

En lögn som smälter stål,

Rygg, stämma, ord.

Musa frammanad av poetens strofer och Apollos händer,

Dessa ord för att begripliggöra det.

Förlorad i tystade böner och utklingade psalmer.

Dyrkad stämma vars ord faller på döva öron,

Syndafall,

Ikon till gyllene kalv

Speglad i spräckta stentavlor.

För du kan inte tro på brinnande blod, varm hud, slående hjärtan,

Utan endast helgade fiktioner som speglar dig i glorians metall,

Men jag förblev människa när huden förgylldes.

Frigjord av salta tårar,

Förlorade löften om himmelrikets krona.

Frigjord luft du sökte supa,

För att kalla förgiftad när det heliga syret blandades ut med vårluften.

Istället för att välsigna dina lungor med bönerna du talat mot mina läppar för att supa in,

Förgylla dina lungor,

Dyrka dess renlärighet

Den jag förkastade med ett våldsamt andetag som samlats under den förgyllda huden,

Frigjordes med tårarnas och blodets bana ned,

Blandas med floder,

Källor fria från vaktande hundar och hjortars blängande ögon.

Kyssta fötter ekar längre och längre bort,

Kysst panna vänder sig uppåt

Och dyrkade ögon fäster sig på röda rosor och månens bana över natthimlen.

Helgade andetag förklarar falsk profet av ung blond gud,

Vars stämma, förkastanden, ekar genom kyrksalen,

River monument, altare och ikonbilder.

Men dyrkar ännu ängeln, helgonet, gudinnan de föreställer.

Utan att se den medföljande ärrade pannan,

Endast musan sprungen ur Apollos fingrars dans över lyran,

Sången från hans läppar.

Orakel som förtäljer vår hjältes öde,

Från martyr till Messias,

Iklädd guldbelagd törnekrona,

Endast krönt med gyllene gloria,

Blind för blodet och smärtan i blicken,

Ögonen fästa på det heliga skenet, öppna händer, blå skrud som snart blir röd av hennes blödande, flödande mänsklighet.

Och namnet suddas från heliga skrifter,

M��lningar täckta med vita lakan,

Bilder täckta med spackel på kyrkoväggar,

Som tjocknar med lagren, och snart blir tjockare igen,

När glorian kröner blonda lockar åter en gång,

Förgyller din spegelbild.

Hennes spegelbild lovar du.

Medan hennes lungor fylls av dina böner,

För att bli madonna, ängel, gudinna.

Medan jag är fördömd att ruttna,

Inte ens en ros på min grav.

Lika tomhänt som innan löften om himlavalvets skönhet i mina händer.

Förbannade girighet.

Du sökte heligt blått sken,

Och fann mänsklighetens röda damm,

Du sökte helgad mytologisk bild

Och fann den profana själens existens,

Du sökte ett helgon, en gudinna, en ängel

Och fann en människa.

Du är besviken.

[adornesibley]

Oh… oh my… well, buy me a drink first next time!

Battletech meets Mörk Borg. Jesus, they just went and reached straight into my brain for this! So so so excited for this to go live, and I’m so backing it!

[invinciblerodent]

Prayer of an unknown cleric

"Lord of Battles, Foehammer, protect me in the clash to come. Let my blade ring true, and my faith not falter. Let the tides of war turn in our favor, or let me fall with honor in Your righteous fire. Guide my soul to hold strong, and my arm to strike true, and allow Your sacred, impartial wisdom to sustain me so that I might guide us to Your blessed victory.

But.... in Your honor and glory, please... through Your divine will... please hear my fitful prayer.

Foehammer, at this troubled hour, hear that I beg of You, with the true and utmost devotion of a heart afire: I beg of You to heal and to keep, to protect that who is more dear than my own self- please, Tempus, my Lord of Fire and Steel, if he is to fall, then [multiple words scratched out] if he is to fall, then let my life be claimed in place of his, for he at holy hands has suff-- [large scribble] Just this once, please grant him Your divine presence. Keep his heart and hand strong, his mind sharp and magic mighty, and guide him to safety. Please, Foehammer, my Lord of War, let sword not touch sorcery on this day, and if it is blood that You desire, then I beg of You to take it from my devout heart sung in steel and psalm, from my sword forged in the crucible of combat, my faithful spirit and its complete devotion, and allow, in Your grace, for my beloved to live. And if life-- [large, furious scribble] if life is to be lost, if blood is to be spilled, let me exchange mine for his, have my life for it is already beholden to You, and let the trade be just, let it be fair, and let it be enough.

I request this of You as Your devout follower, as but Your most humble servant and sword- I beg of You to keep him, to save him; and if Your might is to hunger, to let Your appetite be whet on my skin, and Your teeth and blade be sated on my flesh, for I am Your creation.

Just... please, fuck, just... please let him live. Gods, please just let him survive this.

- an ink-stained prayer penned by a Baldurian war-priest on the eve of a great battle, 1492 DR. Divine magic shimmers in the parchment.

(Item received: Scroll of Warding Bond)

[nellie-elizabeth]

Book Tracking Check-In 10.4.24

TOTAL "Official" TBR: 100 (95 + 3 not on GR + 2 currently reading)

GOAL 1 BOOKS: OWNED & NOT READ (16 as of 10.4.24, 1 is preordered)

Dawnshard - Brandon Sanderson

The Sunlit Man - Brandon Sanderson

Nona the Ninth - Tamsyn Muir

Mammoths at the Gates - Nghi Vo

The Brides of High Hill - Nghi Vo

The Mars House - Natasha Pulley

10 Things That Never Happened - Alexis Hall

Tender Is the Night - F. Scott Fitzgerald

Go Tell It On the Mountain - James Baldwin

Love and Freindship (sic) - Jane Austen

The Unconsoled - Kazuo Ishiguro

Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead - Tom Stoppard

The Real Inspector Hound & Other Plays - Tom Stoppard

Morning Star - Pierce Brown

My Brilliant Friend - Elena Ferrante

[What Doesn’t Break (Bells Hells)] - preordered

GOAL 2 BOOKS: BOOK CLUBS! (1 as of 10.4.24)

The Spear Cuts Through Water

GOAL 3 BOOKS: RE-READ OLD BOOKS (23 as of 10.4.24)

Peter and the Starcatchers

Peter and the Shadow Thieves

Peter and the Secret of Rundoon

In Cold Blood

The Wish List

Walk Two Moons

The BFG

Adam Bede

The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down

The Princess Bride

Olive’s Ocean

The Valley of Secrets

The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest

Gathering Blue

Beloved - Toni Morrison

Mama Day - Gloria Naylor

The Accursed - Joyce Carol Oates

Ivanhoe - Walter Scott

The Cricket in Times Square

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

Slaughterhouse-Five

Charlotte’s Web

The People in the Trees

GOAL 4 BOOKS: CONTINUING SERIES/AUTHORS (Not currently owned/acquired) [60]

Discworld [11]

The Locked Tomb [1] *1 upcoming

Red Rising [4] *1 upcoming

Neapolitan [3]

Cosmere [3]

Critical Role [4]

After Cilmeri [5]

Priory of Orange Tree [2]

Hands of Emperor [2]

Dickens [1]

GO Graphic Novel [1]

Skyward [4]

Sanderson Other [1]

Saint of Steel [2]

Dan Jones History [2]

Random Library Books [3] *Bright Sword, Housekeeping, Penance*

Kate Alice Marshall [1]

Gods of Blood and Powder [3]

Lavender House [3]

Emily Tesh [1]

Philippa Gregory [3]

—————————

My Reading Stats in 2024 So Far: 70 TOTAL

GOAL 1 BOOKS: OWNED & NOT READ [27]

Promise of Blood

The Mighty Nein Origins - Fjord Stone

Words of Radiance

The Last Hero

Harrow the Ninth

The Narrow

A Christmas Carol and Other Christmas Writings

Edgedancer

Red Rising

The Crimson Campaign

Lord Byron’s Novel: The Evening Land

Mistborn: Secret History

Night Watch

Arcanum Unbounded

Golden Son

Yumi and the Nightmare Painter

How Long ‘Til Black Future Month

The Mighty Nein Origins - Beauregard Lionett

Into the Riverlands

The Autumn Republic

Apostles of Mercy

The Mighty Nein Origins - Caduceus Clay

No One Can Know

The Dispossessed

The Wee Free Men

The Adventure Zone: The Suffering Game

Oathbringer

GOAL 2 BOOKS: BOOK CLUBS! [16]

The Robber Bride

The Glass Hotel

Wylding Hall

The Unsettled

Babel-17

When We Were Orphans

Trust

The Riddle-Master of Hed

The Emperor and the Endless Palace

Prep

Parasol Against the Axe

A Psalm for the Wild-Built

Greta & Valdin

Anatomy: A Love Story

The One

Tom Lake

GOAL 3 BOOKS: RE-READ OLD BOOKS [18]

The Magicians Nephew

The Hobbit

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

Cages

The Horse and His Boy

Prince Caspian

Crime and Punishment

The Voyage of the Dawn Treader

The Blithedale Romance

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo

The Silver Chair

The Last Battle

The Left Hand of Darkness

The School Story

Our Only May Amelia

The Host

Bud, Not Buddy

The Girl Who Played With Fire

GOAL 4 BOOKS: CONTINUING SERIES/AUTHORS [9] (Most included in Goal 1)

The Rise of Kyoshi

The Shadow of Kyoshi

Dark One

Dark One: Forgotten

Ninefox Gambit

Paladin's Grace

Skyward

Immortality: A Love Story

Paladin's Strength

[beardisable]

Fuckin hell it's nearing 3am(3 hours after i finished Nona) and I really need to sleep but lemme see if I can form any coherent thoughts about the ending

I was already crying at Nona mourning pal and cam so terribly(something about the healthiest relationship in the series still being consumption and merging under threat and stress, but still mutual and consensual and a symbiosis instead of parasitic, and how now both of them are gone but are one, but they're not gone, and how to love is to change others and be changed by others and share their experience and become one by absorbing little bits of them into yourself like a child growing up learning from media and their family and friends and how nona fucking speed ran that I guess but also is still so so so touched every single time and-), and the ship steering part was so cool but the repetition of I'm dying probably kept me on my toes, and eventually I was sobbing with Nona disassociating from harrows body and the march into the tomb and the killing of crux and maybe he was being extra nasty to make kiriona kill him faster and not feel guilt but of course she does and she doesn't feel satisfaction either because that's hardly ever the part of revenge that helps you heal and-), and then ianthe sitting down backwards on the steel chair with the red apple in her hand being the fucking friendship bracelets and then kiriona baffling her anyway with her plan which was satisfying af, but then Nona literally imploding I guess and the reveal of when exactly the uhhh psalms(like the John 32 or whatever idk what they're called, damn I really should read the bible for this series huh) took place and getting details of alecto, and then I didn't understand mostly what was happening anymore and was just?????? Shocked out of my tears and mourning and just left absolutely baffled and not ready to have emotions at the end of a tlt book for the third time in a row (100% success rate) and. Wow.

Also something something about "necromancy" and necrotic romance and dead love and love Is dead BUT ITS NOT LOVE IS FOREVER and it will always have happened and changed you and you both won't be the same anymore but you you're better for it and maybe staying the same isn't good, maybe keeping to the status go is bad actually like trying to keep a memory sealed or put the love in a mini fridge or not do anything to save the planet the only Home we have and GOD FUCK I HATE RICH PEOPLE jod is a man corrupted by his power but also his progress was completely logical and he's such a good fucking villain FUCK God damn