#Swamplands of the Soul

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Wise words from James Hollis on loss, grief, and betrayal.

[Thea]

[bjbjbjbjbjk]

Most of us have been conditioned to be nice rather than genuine, receptive rather than honest, agreeable rather than assertive.

Swamplands of the Soul: New Life in Dismal Places _James Hollis

[th3w1ltedpe0ny]

◇Satisfaction◇

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Summary: THE LAST PART TO DRY HUMPING??? Thank you guys for liking my dumbassery? Craaaaazy to think any of you would liked this weird brain shit I got goin on in this blog.

Warning: Smut, pure, unadulterated smut. Smut smutty smut smut smut! (Just enjoy-)

Word count: Noneeee! Just made this

“I really am impressed,” Al hissed into your ear as his lips trailed down your neck, fingers working deep into your clenching heat as his other hand kneaded the flesh of your breast from underneath your knitted button-up sweater, “You lasted far longer then I believed you would, but alas you didn't meet my true expectations.” His fingers curled, two digits rocking into the spongey spot right near your entrance, drawing a cry from your lips at the teasing. “I fear you haven't earned me inside you just yet.” Finished with a nip to your ear, tweaking your peak with a roll of his forefinger and thumb as your ground down into his other hand, whines and soft gasps continuing to climb in volume as fireflies hummed and blinked around you both. He'd brought you into the swamplands of his pocket dimensional room, his tie, belt, and cane strewn halfway to where he had worked you up from at the door. Your body relaxed flat against the deer demons chest upon his lap so he could have his way with you as he pleased. It was torture though, the edge that was just close enough to reach always furthering itself as he'd slow his movements or move his thumb from your swollen clit to stop that thread from snapping in two. “N-no- I- But!-” You writhed, hands feverishly trying to find a place to rest as the repetitive edging was starting to become to much. “No, Al.. I'm sorry, I never- I didn't mean—” He hushed you, grinning lips placing another kiss on your skin before he managed to switch your position on his lap, making your legs straddle a single thigh so he could see that begging expression.

That pleading look in your foggy eyes, “I'm afraid I won't be going back on my word, Darling. But I will let you have the release you crave.” He explained while moving his hands from your chest and wet, squelching cunt to your waist, from there he drew your body forward and watched as you jolted and squirmed with a noise of embarrassment from your enjoyment of the feeling. His wicked grin grew, eyes narrowing as his smile twitched until you able to see the blackness that was his gums, “Mm-” Your hips jerked against him, hands coming up to his shoulders as a brace as you began to move yourself, no longer needing Alastors help in the matter as strings of moans and blubbering gasps started up again. Satisfied with your eagerness to please yourself from his teasing attacks on your most sensitive area, he leaned further away, back falling flat onto the grass as his ears flattened against his hair and he growled at the feeling of your wet juices flowing over his pants, your knee grazing his bulge that was oh so noticeable. But not to you. “Fuck- Al.. ‘S not enough.. It's not- I can't..!” You whined, body bending forward so that you were hovering over him, hair coming undone from its once firmly tied place, framing the two of you like a curtain as the radio demons claws slipped behind your head to bring you further down. Your body was laying atop his, hands gripping the grass near the sides of his head as his lips caught you in a kiss that broke your mind in half from the unexpected action and surprising amount of affection placed behind it. He plunged his tongue as far into your mouth as he could, his other hand continuing its guidance of your lower half as your eyes rolled back into your head, and your body began to twitch harder. You were right there, and all he had to do was push you all the way. How lovely for him, to have you in this bind, and not even one with your soul but with your mind. Your leg hiked up and slung over his other thigh, your heat pressing firmly on his straining bulge before you finally could hear a noise bubble from beneath Al's static that crackled. A noise resembling a glitched moan left him, noise transferring into your mouth which you reciprocated as he bit down onto your tongue, blood falling onto his lips which he lapped desperately up before you both flipped over.

You felt the soft grass, hair messy against it as you panted against the man above you’s lips, your legs being tugged upwards as he broke the kiss and buried his face into your shoulder so he could rut down between your legs at a quick pace. “How..” He breathed heavily, eyes failing to focus properly on your blissful expression, “How dare you do this to me.. You filthy thing..!” Those words were dripped in malice, anger from the pleasure you were providing for him when he had only wanted you to break for him. You had, but at what cost to his own pleasure. This grotesquely marvelous feeling he'd detested with his entire soul finally feeling as it should, like he needed it to feel as his hips pushed harder, the throb becoming nearly unbearable. He was there, the gooey warmth finally adding to the damp spot that had nearly dried and then some as it seeped slightly through the fabric, the white stickiness gently coating your lady lips as he continued to rub against you until your own climax hit you like a truck. With a groan of sorts, hands holding him into your chest while your body arched, you came undone against him and allowed your mind to fade as he pulled himself flat down against you with a sigh before darkness consumed you.

[lostintransist]

The Promised Ending

Beat Down Dogs Shake, Not Holler | AO3

A/N: Story is fully written and will update on Fridays.

“Why do you make it so damn hard to want you, Phil!?”

You’ve been in love with this man since you were ten and he was thirteen. Even back then any affection was violently sloughed off. You hate that you still loved him.

Unseen to you was the words landing and clinging to Phillip like Greek fire. They would burn until his soul, more carbon than not, stopped quivering. Nothing else had killed him, but your rejection might do what stronger men had failed at.

“I’m not a violent dog,” his voice cracked, weeping wounds that never healed spilling into his words. “I don’t know why I bite.”

Your lip trembled. Your body and soul can’t decide if you needed to vomit, scruff him, kiss the hurt from Phil’s eyes, or put him down like a rabid dog.

“Once bitten, twice shy. Sleep in the barn and be gone by morning.” You spin on a heel, your nightgown snapped behind you. If you saw him flinch, the man who would have fought God and laughed as he did it when he left all those years ago, you promptly ignored it.

“If that’s what you’d like,” he whispered to the wind.

Phillip Graves, a man who grew crooked and broken from childhood, couldn’t stop the tears as the deadbolt slammed home.

Let’s rewind a bit shall we? It’s no good to tell a tale without knowing where we’ve started. You can refer to me as Narrator, and know that I am annoyed as fuck about this man.

Hubris landed one Phillip Graves on a hit list of the prodigious Task Force 141. Instead of a bullet between the eyes, like General Shepherd received, Phillip was given a task and dropped in a gulag.

“You have six months,” ice blue eyes that must have been what Dante imagined when dreaming of hell pinned him to the chair. “Six months to kill Makarov. Get the job done and get out alive and we’ll call our debts square.”

The narrator would like it noted that Phillip did not have the knowledge to fear Captain John Price before this. He lacked the understanding that despite the Union Jack sewn into the uniform, John Price served no king, no god, above that of his ever shifting moral compass.

“And if I don’t?” Phil snarled past the split lip and crooked jaw.

A single punch from Ghost, the big bastard, had dislocated it.

Captain John Price grinned with malicious glee.

“Then you’ll be dead by their hands or ours.”

That was the last facsimile of a smile Phil saw for nearly a year. It took him five months and three weeks to get close enough to Makarov to sink his teeth into the man’s neck and tear it free. As always, Phillip ended up a day late and a dollar short. He should have learned from childhood, nothing would ever fall his direction unless it was a tree aiming for his skull.

Makarov walked out of the gulag, blood freezing behind him of the masses of dead. Phil, in ingratiating himself to the now freed man, had been able to secure a ride to warmer climates. It took him over six months to save the money from under the table work to secure passage to New Orleans. The mishmash of accents washed over his ears like that of blended sounds of a vibrant swampland it once was and tried again to become.

It wasn’t home but it was closer than he had been in nearly a decade.

He started walking.

Houston where his mother’s body rotted in a box encased in concrete and his father’s ashes dotted the graveyard had never been home. No, a farm in the north that his grandfather had gifted him upon his passing, is where Phil was pulled. The small town with it’s small people who had never had to make choices that played with others lives. They wouldn’t have him, didn’t want him.

He started walking.

Stopping first in a library he opened an old email and fired of a message to his lawyer. The prompt response from the paralegal reeked of shock and plastered professionalism. Yes, his property was still in trust. Yes, it was being managed by a party that wanted to buy it. No, he had not been reported as dead, only missing. Yes, they could contact the bank the trust was held at and request a card be sent to his PO box. Yes, they would also send a printed copy of the trust documentation to the same address.

Pleased to know he would at least be able to remain under the radar, Phil logged out, scrubbed all traces of himself from the computer, and set forth once more on his sole-worn boots. It took him another three weeks to touch the dust he owned. Dusk brushed his shoulders as he started down the path to the house his great-grandfather had built.

Instead of peace of being home, he found you.

Swinging on the porch swing that must have been installed after he left, you stood so fast at seeing his face that when the the momentum caught you in the back of the knees you stumbled forward and dropped your drink.

We don’t really need to rehash how Phil ended up in the barn that first night home. Some sins are best left to those affected. He did not deserve the privacy I am offering. You do, though.

This tale will hurt. Bit like removing a splinter, it’s going to get worse before it gets better. I can’t promise a happy ending. Can’t promise anything really. Walk with me on this fucked up path and lets see where we end up.

Part 2

Masterlist | Taglist

[justafellr]

Now that I got the main emotions out of the way, I can finally talk about the revamped emotions that were scrapped. I am incredibly eager to talk about one in particular since I have a very interesting interpretation of them Let's at long last talk about the swamp creature themself, Shame

My Shame is completely different from the concept version of the character. The Shame in the concept version is very antagonistic, hostile and not very loving compared to the other emotions. No wonder she was scrapped. I never liked this read of the emotion since 1, the character never really felt ashamed and 2, I felt this more so reveals how psychologists and the public look at Shame, that and the current description of the feeling as a purely negative, self deprecating and maladaptive emotion that makes one feel worthless and subhuman, to the point that some hesitate to call it an emotion due to how seemingly purely destructive it is, and those who try to apply positives to it make it sound to similar too Embarrassment and Guilt, creating even more confusion and debate. But Shame is a very different emotion from them and I feel looking at it through a different and compassionate lens is essential to see the value in the emotion So the original definition of Shame means "to hide" and what does Shame often hide away? Aspects of ourselves, our actions or behaviors that would be considered scorn worthy by the social group/society or was scorned in the past, which is very different from emotions like Embarrassment and Guilt, where the former acts more like an appeasement gesture for a silly mistake or foolish behavior and the latter makes one want to make up for and fix present/past mistakes or moral transgressions. It protects u from being ostracized Shame would be a reclusive, secretive, semi anti social and soft spoken emotion. They often tug their long hair out of insecurity or fear and tends to hide behind their hair when they felt like they did something scorn worthy and has a tendency to shut down and hide away. They're very inhibitory and often holds the other emotions back and reminds them of the social consequences of their actions, and also of what happened the last time they did the thing. They keep a veil of "parts of us that the world mustn't see" and or "parts of us that was seen with unloving eye's". To put it simply, they a keeper and a protector of one's most vulnerable aspects of oneself, and keeps them low from any potential scorn or ridicule I love the idea that instead of Shame being an antagonistic and harsh critic of their person as most people tend to associate with Shame, they are an emotion that arguably loves their person THE MOST out of all of the emotions since they keeps the deeper and more vulnerable aspects of their person with them and to themself only, protecting them with all of their might and only revealing them when they think they are accepted or acceptable

Their design is inspired by very specific concept art of Shame. I always preferred the swampy look of the character since Shame is often referred to by psychologists as "the swamplands of the soul". I love how they would have absurdly long hair, perfect for hiding away out of, well, shame lol

[gatheringbones]

[“Many psychodynamic therapists understand that they must work with how their patients’ pasts play out in the present. In this way they attempt to help them secure a better, healthier, more focused, effective, and vibrant future. However, without a working understanding of how trauma becomes inscribed as memory imprints in body, brain, and mind, as well as in psyche and soul, the healer is sure to lose his or her way in the labyrinth of cause and effect. For effective therapy, it is critical to appreciate just how trauma becomes riveted in the body’s instinctive reactions to perceived threat; how it becomes fixated in certain emotions, particularly those of fear, terror, and rage, as well as in habitual affective mood states such as depression, bipolarity, and loss of vital energy; and finally, how it plays out in various self-destructive and repetitive behaviors.

Without a firm grasp of the multidimensional structure of traumatic memory as it is stored in the brain and held in the body, the therapist is often left floundering in the swamplands of ambiguity and uncertainty. Indeed, misconceptions about so-called recovered memories have caused much unnecessary pain and suffering for patients and for their families, while also creating confusion and self-doubt for the therapists who treat them.

Perhaps more than we might wish to admit, many therapists are influenced by common misconceptions about the nature of memory. Traditionally, both academic and clinical psychologists have tended to study what has been called “verbally accessible memory.” This “declarative” form of memory is called upon and rewarded in elementary, middle, and high school, as well as in undergraduate and graduate studies. No small wonder then that psychologists and psychotherapists, as products of academia, tend to reflexively identify with this particular kind of conscious memory. However, conscious, explicit memory is only the proverbial tip of a very deep and mighty iceberg. It barely hints at the submerged strata of primal implicit experience that moves and motivates us in ways that the conscious mind can only begin to imagine. But imagine we should, and understand we must, if we are to work effectively and wisely with trauma and its memory traces in both mind and body.”]

peter levine, from trauma and memory: brain and body in a search for a living past, 2015

[monsieuroverlord]

Because I can't get this out of my head:

I mean, look, he picked flowers for her! And it was cathartic for him!!

And the visual of placing them around her head only like a crown is darkly beautiful to me.

Now, I used to be really into flower symbolism once upon a time, so each flower here can have a different meaning down to the color.

In this case, do I think the flowers were intentional here? No, not at all. They're kind of random actually. I think it's more to do with the fact he actually took the time to pick whatever was nearby in general in addition to digging the graves (Lord knows how long that took)

And also, from an art perspective, different shapes are visually interesting. I don't think it goes any deeper than that, but it's fun to speculate anyway.

Taking from the second panel here, the following flowers based on my educated guesses:

Red poppies: remembrance and hope for a peaceful future (for example, used as a symbol of remembrance for soldiers in Canada)

Pink poppies: compassion, kindness, sympathy, and platonic love

Yellow daisies: well wishes and joy -- can often be used in a "get well soon bouquet"

Pink amaryllis (Not 100% about this one, but close enough): determination and strength.

There's some others in near the crown that could maybe be a red rose and a pink daisy, but I can't really tell.

Like I said, kind of random. Aside from the red poppy, they're too happy -- feels out of place with the rest of the book. So I'm going with it's just a pretty visual and I'm overanalyzing, lol.

Now, if I really wanted to pick flowers with deeper meaning, what would I pick? Great question!

First things first, none of these flowers are native to North Carolina (Unless you want to argue that the "daisy" is really a false sunflower or something similar, but I digress.) But invasive species are a thing, so eh ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Here are my picks of flowers that have deeper meaning:

Magnolia: often associated with feminine energy, grace, and beauty; symbol of perseverance and determination. would be easy to find in North Carolina

Purple Hyacinth: deep sorrow and regret. a classic. Easily grown in North Carolina, but not native (Though the thought of Aki raiding someone's garden bed for this is mildly funny to me)

Lilies: now we got a couple choices here, as there's a few species native to swampland in the Carolinas. Lilies in general are a popular funeral flower, symbolizing peace and innocence restored to the soul of the departed. My personal favorite is the Carolina Lily, as it is very similar-looking to a classic tiger lily, which is my favorite flower

And finally, just so we are 4-for-4, the humble milkweed!

Symbolizes remembrance, dignity, and freedom:

[shellem15]

The Nine Hells of Baator

As a devil fangirl, I finally decided to write a basic overview of the Nine Hells, which has consumed my brain since forever. While most of this is taken straight from forgotten realms lore (shoutout to the wiki!), I've put my own spin on things and emphasized certain details I found interesting. The list of sins associated with each layer (Wrath, Fear, Greed, Lust, Deceit, Gluttony, Sloth, Envy, and Pride) is taken from the Enneagram sins, because I needed 9 of them instead of just 7.

I might decide to go more into depth for each layer/archdevil, but no promises!

Overview:

The Nine Hells of Baator is a plane of pure law and evil, a place where tyranny reigns supreme. Devils, or Baatezu, make their home here, crafted from the souls of the damned and eternally bound to serve their betters. The Hells consist of nine descending layers of sin and punishment, connected by the flowing waters of the river Styx. Each layer is ruled by an Archdevil, a devil of immense power and influence who exerts total control over their domain. While the layers are distinct, they are still interconnected, each serving a purpose to further the Hells' agenda.

Devilish society is centered around power, hierarchy, and order, with those without power seeking to claim it and those with power seeking to keep it. The Blood War, the endless conflict between Devils and Demons, keeps the Hells running; an eternal enmity that keeps the populace from turning against their masters. Everything in the Hells ultimately serves to further the goals of Asmodeus, the Lord and Master of this dark domain.

Avernus:

The first layer of Hell is Avernus, a blasted plane of endless trenches and rivers of blood. It is a war-torn battlefield, the Hells' first line of defense against the ceaseless hordes of demon-kind. This is the layer of Wrath, of eternal bloodshed and unending hatred. The armies of the Hells are stationed here, ready to be thrown to the crushing wheel of the Blood War.

Avernus is ruled over by their fell general, the Archduchess Zariel. A fearsome warrior—a fallen angel—who lives for the kill, for the next great conquest.

Dis:

The second layer of Hell is Dis, a plane of those who watch, and those who are watched. An iron city, one of smoke and steel and hidden eyes. This is the layer of Fear, whose denizens live in terror of those beyond the walls—and of those within, as well. Dis acts as a multi-tool for the Hells: it is a hub of interplanar trade, a great titan of industry that produces the arms and means needed to fuel the Blood War, and, most critically, it contains the greatest surveillance network in the outer planes. Knowledge is as valuable as souls in the streets of Dis.

The overseer of this foul city is the Archduke Dispater, an old devil, paranoid about usurpation despite the tight grip he keeps over his domain. He locks himself away in his iron tower, a panopticon from which he monitors all dealings in his realm.

Minarous:

The third layer of Hell is Minarous, a plane of those who have, and those who have not. It is a thick swampland, home to monstrosities that slither and crawl through the muck and mud. This is the layer of Greed, of crushing poverty, sinking debt, and grabbing hands. The heart of this fetid realm is the Bank of Minarous, the center of all commerce in the Nine Hells. This is only bank allowed to mint soul coins, the official currency of the Hells. The Blood War runs on the souls of the damned, and all souls pass through Minarous' coffers.

The master of the bank is the Archduke Mammon, a miserly, serpentine devil who sits upon a hoard larger than any dragon's. He is a devil loved by none, but money speaks louder than words, and power is oft bought rather than earned.

Phlethegos:

The fourth layer of Hell is Phlethegos, a plane of flame and rock, pleasure and penance, judges and those who whisper in their ears. The great courts of the Hells reside in this volcanic realm, and so too do the pleasure houses and casinos. This is the layer of Lust, of tipped scales and weighted dice, of burning passion underneath cool indifference, of great rewards and dire consequences. Law and order is the backbone of Hellish society, and it is here where "justice" is served.

Reflecting the dual nature of Phlethegos, the rulers of this place are the Archduke Belial and Archduchess Fierna. Belial is the original ruler of the fourth Hell, the great Justiciar who presides over the court system. Fierna is the newcomer, Belial's daughter and rising challenger, the Lady of Lusts and Pleasures. On the surface, it seems that father and daughter are at odds, each vying for power over the other; Much like their realm, however, their interests are more entwined then one might think.

Stygia:

The fifth layer of Hell is Stygia, a plane of lies and exaggerations, of truths distorted in icy reflections. A frozen ocean of dark waters and bright glaciers blinding those who gaze into the ice. This is the layer of Deceit, of endless news cycles and lies sold as truths. A war cannot be fought without support, and the broadcasts of the fifth ensure the thirst for blood among Hell's populace is never sated.

The chief of this artic bureau is the Archduke Levistus, a handsome, silver-tongued devil frozen in a vast glacier. The conniving charlatan was trapped as punishment for his own treachery, and now can only speak though the forked tongues of his servantry.

Malbolge:

The sixth layer of Hell is Malbolge, a twisted plane of cushioned cellblocks, of iron bars and shackles disguised as sweet salvation. It is an endless labyrinth, a prison of luxury and extravagance which traps its inmates like flies in honey. This is the layer of Gluttony, where excess and indulgence bind souls tighter than any chain. Even the Hells have its lawbreakers, its criminals and traitors, and here is where those souls are sentenced, forced to pay penance for their crimes and misdeeds.

The warden of this dreadful prison is the Archduchess Glasya, Princess of the Hells and daughter of Asmodeus. While she oversees the Hells' penal system, she is also the Hells' greatest criminal, bending Baator's laws and rules as far as she can while skirting her way out of consequences.

Maladomini:

The seventh layer of Hell is Maladomini, a once-bustling plane now fallen to rot and ruin. It is a place of the lost and forgotten, of decaying cities, crumbling infrastructure, and long-abandoned ghost towns. This is the layer of Sloth, of malicious negligence and crushing complacency, of rusted factories and strip-mines long since dried up. Bureaucracy is the bane of progress, and here, where all the records in the Hells are kept and stored, bureaucracy reigns supreme.

The chief executive of this putrid domain is the Archduke Baalzebul, the Lord of the Flies. Once a beautiful angel of the Heavens themselves, he is now as grotesque and wretched as the realm he rules.

Cania:

The eighth layer of Hell is Cania, a plane of melting ice and rapid development, of forbidden knowledge and those who wield it. It is a frozen mountain range, one where vast glaciers and snow-capped peaks hide secret laboratories and great libraries, where "progress" is made at the expense of morality and reason. This is the layer of Envy, of the relentless strive to be greater than your peers, of the pain one feels at others' success. The Blood War demands bigger weapons and greater firepower, and Cania is at the forefront of these advancements.

The mastermind behind this frigid realm is the Archduke Mephistopheles, the Hells' greatest wizard and second-most powerful Archdevil. In his resentment of his fellows, the Lord of Hellfire has thrown himself to invention and experimentation, creating new and terrible magics that melt the very foundations of his icy domain.

Nessus:

The ninth and lowest layer of Hell is Nessus, a plane of those who rule and hold themselves above all else—a plane of power itself. It is a wind-swept wasteland scarred by endless chasms and ravines, where grand citadels and fortresses light up the darkest trenches in the Outer Planes; where the greatest deals are struck behind closed doors. This is the layer of Pride, of great hubris and unwavering conviction—the mother of all vices. It is here where laws are made and authority is unchallenged, where power is held as most sacred and holy. All the Hells are beholden to the will of Nessus.

The Lord of this realm, and of all the Hells, is the Archduke Asmodeus. The greatest of all devils, the Lord of Lies and Prince of Evil, the mastermind behind the Hellish Project. He is ancient and powerful, unchallenged in his dominion, and a being of pure, unfettered arrogance. A tyrant who seeks absolute domination over all of reality, and one willing to do whatever it takes to achieve that goal.

[cosmicmote]

in this world

one can not see light

without ample darkness,

there are other havens for that

(bless us).

from the swamplands of the soul

(at least I've got one),

words ©spacetree 2024

[karmicstar]

THE PRICE OF THE PAST

The air was thick with the scent of rum and grave dirt. Midnight draped itself over the city like a funeral veil, and deep in the swampland, beneath the gnarled roots of a cypress tree, Étienne knelt before a crude altar of bones and black candles. He had whispered the old incantations, spilled the right blood, and left the finest tobacco wrapped in black silk. He had done everything right. Now, he waited.

A cold wind coiled around him, and the candles flickered, their flames bending as if paying homage to an unseen force. Then came the laughter—deep, guttural, laced with something both sinister and amused.

“You called, petit?” The voice was thick as molasses and sweet as decay.

Étienne raised his head. There, standing before him, was Baron Samedi, draped in a tattered black coat, a top hat perched atop his skull-painted face. His eyes gleamed like twin obsidian stones, knowing, mischievous, and utterly terrifying.

“I seek your help, Baron,” Étienne said, voice barely above a whisper.

Samedi cocked his head. “Oh? What kind of help does a man like you need from the lord of the grave?”

Étienne swallowed hard. “I want power. The power to summon the dead, to bend spirits to my will, to make them speak.”

The Baron chuckled, rolling a cigar between his fingers before lighting it with a snap of his fingers. Smoke curled like phantom hands around his face. “And what makes you think you can handle such power, eh?”

“I have nothing to lose,” Étienne said, voice firmer now. “No family, no fortune, no future. Just this.” He gestured to the pitiful altar. “I offer all that I am.”

Baron Samedi grinned wide, teeth flashing like a skeletal grin. “All that you are? That’s a dangerous thing to offer, boy. But I’ll take it.”

With a wave of his hand, the ground beneath them groaned, and the air turned thick with whispers of the long-dead. Shadows stretched unnaturally, and the weight of something unseen pressed against Étienne’s chest. The veil between the living and the dead was splitting, a gaping wound in the world.

Étienne felt the knowledge pour into him—rituals, spells, the names of spirits lost to time. His fingers ached with power, his breath came in ragged gasps. It was intoxicating.

“Ah, ah, ah…” The Baron waggled a finger. “One rule, petit. Never, ever look back.”

Étienne nodded. He could feel it—something lurking at the edges of his vision. Something pulling at the fabric of his past, whispering, beckoning. But he would not look.

The power was his. He could summon souls, command them to speak, to do his bidding. He was no longer a man lost in the world—he was something more.

But then, one night, as he stood in a forgotten cemetery, calling forth a soul to answer for a crime long buried, he heard it. A voice. A voice he had buried deep, long ago.

“Étienne…”

His blood ran cold. His mother’s voice. Soft. Broken. A voice from before the hunger, before the betrayal, before he had done the unthinkable.

He clenched his fists. He would not look. He could not.

“Étienne, mon fils… why did you leave me?”

Tears burned at his eyes. His breath hitched. He turned.

The moment his gaze met the past, the wind roared like a thousand voices screaming at once. The ground buckled. The spirits he had summoned, the power he had gained—it all turned on him. Hands, cold as the grave, clutched at his flesh, dragging him down, down into the abyss he had dared to open.

The last thing he saw was Baron Samedi, grinning, tipping his hat. “I warned you, petit. The past don’t let go so easy.”

Then, darkness.

And the grave swallowed him whole.

[dailydemonspotlight]

Day 11 - Pyro Jack / Jack-o'-lantern

Race: Fairy

Alignment: Neutral

April 3rd, 2024

On the streets at night in the cold, deep darkness, a candle flickers. You know this means only one thing. Hallow's eve is right around the corner. Introducing the second of the Jack Bros, Pyro Jack!

In Ireland since the 1700's, it's been a tradition to put up Jack-o'-lanterns as the month errs towards Halloween, inspired by the legend of a man known as 'Stingy Jack.' According to the story, there was a tricky drunk in an Irish town with the name Jack, a man who would sell a soul for six silver coins or break into a bank in order to fuel his ever-growing reliance on booze. He was hated, by even the heavens itself, yet soon he found himself at death's door. That is when the Devil came to him, to see if he was truly as terrible as the stories painted him out to be.

One night, Jack wandered the cobblestone roads before coming to a dreadful sight- a body, laying smack-dab in the center of the road. However, it had a face not of death, but rather, devilish envy, as the Devil himself made his presence known. Jack had one last request, one typical of a drunkard- to get one last drink in before the end. The Devil obliged, likely finding it foolish, and took him to a pub, where they both drank the night away. Jack, then, asked the Devil to cover his tab. His idea? To turn the beast into a silver coin. Impressed by his trickiness, the Devil did as asked... only to be slipped into a pocket with a crucifix, held captive by slippery Jack, who had now fucked with the devil himself. Baffled and trapped, the two made a deal- Jack would be given 10 more years on the earth.

Unsurprisingly, when the time came, Jack yet again tricked the Devil, and was granted eternal recompense, as the Devil was forced to make him never go to hell. Ever. When Jack's time came, however, his life of deceit and fraud only gave him a ticket out of Heaven's pearly gates, and the Devil wasn't one to give up on a deal either, so he was eventually forced back to earth, forever to roam as a lost spirit held alive by the flickering light of a lantern within a turnip. Ever since, Jack-o'-lanterns have been a popular tradition of Halloween, originally starting as incredibly freaky looking rutabagas before eventually changing to the far more iconic autumn fruit of a pumpkin.

The idea behind the lighting of the Jack-o'-lanterns is scarcely known, but it's mostly thought to be a tradition to help guide Stringy Jack along the roads and to help his soul find peace in his eternal roaming of the plains of earth.

Pyro Jack, unsurprisingly, is based on Jack-o'-lanterns, though mostly in his pumpkin head. The lantern he carries is likely an allusion to Stringy Jack, lighting the way for his soul to wander aimlessly in the megaten world. Being the second Jack Brother, Pyro Jack is also his counterpart, representing the flame to Jack Frost's ice. Pyro Jack is also based on the phenomenon of Will-o'-wisps, flickering lights that appear in the dead of night with no real explanation, typically around swampland and forests.

He typically appears in every SMT game, mostly as an early game demon, as well as a component to his big brother, Black Frost. Overall, Pyro Jack has a fun and festive Halloween design, some really fun folklore, and, while simple, works as a perfectly effective little spooky spirit in the smt series.

[looselyreadymade]

Locked in a Memory (HH reader insert fic) Chapter Six: Lucid dreaming

Trigger and content warnings: Alastor x reader, Alastor has feelings, Emily is a demon, swearing, sex acts, human reader, not a slow burn

UNKNOWN FUTURE TRIGGER WARNINGS AS I AM HONESTLY MAKING THIS UP AS I GO ALONG: (?)drugs, alcohol, partying, violence, gore, deception, probably things along those lines 

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Chapter Six: Lucid dreaming  

Charlie shook Alastor violently, fervently trying to wake him. His twisted face crumpled against the disturbance, his face paler than usual with deep shadows under his eyes, more pronounced than ever. A soft snarl escapes him as he fights to stay asleep, losing the battle to Charlie’s panic.  

He snorts and shouts fiercely at the princess, causing her to jump back.  

She held her hands up, not backing away further.  

Alastor gained his bearings, noticing the slight friction burn on his cheek from sleeping on the carpet. He grumbled in irritation, plastering a wide smile as he made it to unsteady feet.  

“This is going too far, Alastor. Emily’s really worried, Hell, i am too. Please talk to me. Is there anything i can do to help? Anyone i can get? Rosie maybe?”  

He brushed off Charlie’s anxiety and shuffled her from the room, slamming the door on her. He turned and leaned against it, breathing heavily. This was beyond anything he had experienced with dark magic, certainly nothing logical with the inner workings of souls in and out of Hell.  

The way she had slept on the ground, fighting the nature around her to survive, creative in ways he had never had to be before; it felt far beyond the stretches of his curious imagination, a facet of humanity he had no longer cared to explore until meeting the spirit. Though now, she seemed more than that; a mortal, tangible and present beyond his own mind. He toyed with the idea that he had somehow created the being through his own sheer force of will, chasing her down through endless cycles of dream states until she manifested in an existence of her own right. The notion pleased him, pondering a new measure of power he had not yet tangled with.  

The flickering of fireflies in his Bayou illusion distracted his reverie. The colours and lighting did not resemble his real-life memory; he was not as effective as Emily at creating vivid scenes. His Bayou was more vivid in the glows and shadows, yet plainer in the finer details of tree trunks and mud. The Bayou his little spirit had been camping in was far truer to his memory of the Louisiana swampland.  

He wandered aimlessly into the false grasses of his copse, debating potential ways to manifest her again. His loss of consciousness had been effective only in observing her, not interacting with her. Emily was too young, too inexperienced to manage the boundaries between dreams and reality with any stability. A thick heave of dread sank in his gut as he contemplated a vile alternative; Lucifer Morningstar.  

Lucifer’s POV: Yup, he’s still insane  

“You want... there’s a... no wait I... Yeah, i don’t get it. I’m absolutely certain you lost your mind. You have any idea how stupid this sounds? How impossible? She’s not even real!”  

Alastor growled under his breath at the insults, holding himself back from scathing retorts.  

“She’s real enough that her very presence destroys Emily’s dream sequence. No matter when or how she shows up, they shatter. And she doesn’t always appear. She has free will, makes choices and expressions that i myself don’t understand. I entirely believe the poor creature is trapped in marshland, awaiting rescue. Would you sacrifice your pride for one mere evening to indulge me? Have i ever truly asked you for anything else?”  

“That’s because i don’t fucking like you, Alastor. And you don’t like me. But Charlie begged, and i mean begged . If i help you, it’s just this once. And it’s for her, not you bellhop. No deals, and I'm backing out if i think it’s a trap, you got it?”  

The Radio Demon smirked, leaning back into his chair with a tired but satisfied grin.  

Lucifer scowled at the wild eyes that now glazed over. Emily had really messed up, big time. Letting his fantasies run wild like this. He’d relived his death in crystal clear definition so many times that insanity was the only logical recourse for his scrambled brain. Lucifer stood, barely throwing an irritated glance at the strangely dissociative demon as his head lolled slightly. If he died from sleep deprivation, Charlie would get out of that damn stupid deal she made. He knew she wouldn’t forgive him for not at least trying. She blamed herself for asking Emily to try to help Alastor get some sleep using her powers, before this all started. Heart of gold, but still so naive to how far gone some souls truly were.  

Lucifer opened a portal to his tower, collecting some tools for the ritual. He had manifestation crystals and sorcerer's runes to stabilise the visions, plus totems to help ground both him and Alastor so they were fully conscious and aware in the illusion. The exasperated sigh escaped him as Lilith’s painted eyes stared back at him from the portrait; How many times he’d used the same tools to manifest his memories of her back in the Garden of Eden. Emily had no idea how dangerous it was to play with the temptations of the mind, how difficult it could be to wrench yourself away from fantasy that you so dearly yearned for.  

His goal wasn’t to help Alastor find the spirit; it was to dispel the illusion, end his delusional fantasies. Prove to him the woman didn’t exist beyond his twisted mind.  

Alastor’s room hummed with sorcery as the runes and symbols ignited and hovered. In perfect sequence, the room came alive with gusts of wind and vibrant flashes, trapping Alastor in the magical realm. Lucifer grinned, striding out into the tiny clearing, gesturing to the empty forest. “So, this is it? The big, dramatic memory you enslaved Emily for weeks to recreate? Not much for imagination, are you?”  

Alastor ignored him, his eyes scanning the land. “Usually the dream has to begin before she appears. She has never come when i am conscious and in control. You may have to induce hypnosis as Emily does.”  

“The whole point of this is to help you see she isn’t real. I’m not watching you dissociate into your own murder just to fuel your depraved fantasies. Show me where she appears.”  

Alastor turned, stalking through the woods, anger rising in his chest. He found the unmarked grave, still exposed and dishevelled from barely just patting the dirt over the body, his flesh-soaked bag tucked under a branch.  

“Eugh. You did this? In real life?”  

“It was a means to a very satisfying end. In truth i have achieved far greater measures of torture and destruction in Hell.”  

“Don’t start. We all know your reputation. So what, you just kneel down and start the dream? Finish hiding the body?”  

“No.... i never get that far. As i said, Emily induces a dream state. As the spirit has not yet arrived despite your wasted time, i am drawn to the conclusion that she will not appear until i have returned to the moment.”  

Lucifer held the indignant gaze of the entitled demon. This was definitely going to go wrong in some way, his gut was screaming it. Do it for Char. Just get this out of the way and help her out.  

He touched Alastor’s forehead, a slight glow emanating from his fingertip as the magic entranced the now-dreaming buck. He stepped from sight, allowing Alastor to sweep into the motions of his memory, shifting into his human form. Lucifer quietly snapped his fingers, triggering the hunters and dogs to commence the chase.  

Through the thickets and trees, Lucifer dodged and weaved gracefully in bird form. He watched over the terrified Alastor at full sprint. Streaks of white, red and black flew across the dense forest as the dogs neared their prey. It was impressive, the level of detail Emily had managed to achieve without control runes. He could train her...  

In the distance, near the final resting spot, a white flash shot through the crevice of trees into the bushes. What the fuck? This wasn’t part of the dream. He’d analysed every moment, every painted detail. Alastor really was manifesting some sort of imaginary spirit into the dream. That was.... concerningly powerful of him.  

As Alastor made his final leap, receiving the death blow from a hunter’s bullet, Lucifer watched the shrouded figure stalking behind the bushes. Lucifer perched on a tree just above the woman, tilting his head to distinguish the details.  

She was incredibly realistic. Frighteningly damaged, in a multitude of ways, having clearly been through more than Hell and back in the wilderness in a shabby stained white dress. Right down to the makeshift leaves bound on her arm, this was exactly the spirit Alastor described.  

Speaking of, the demon-turned-human's body twitched into life. The spirit crouched further, gently shifting debris from beside her without even looking. Practiced, as if she knew exactly where the noises would alert Alastor if she stepped wrong. Fascinating, if not appalling. To create such a realistic being that they have their own form of consciousness, memories of their own from being trapped in his Hellish dream cycle. His chest ached for the poor thing. His wings flapped quietly as he puffed, getting ready to shift into demon form, when the spirit looked directly at him. He froze, locked in the woman’s fierce gaze. Releasing a slow breath, she gestured a finger over her lips, begging for silence. He complied, unable to decide any other course of action.  

She held out her hand, the other steadying her against the harsh ground. Inviting Lucifer into her palm.  

He descended, softly gliding in the air until he perched gently into her palm, twitching his head curiously. The spirit smiled softly at him, exhaustion painted into her face. In the faintest voice, she whispered, “Lucifer.”  

He felt the vision start to tremble at the edges as the runes fought to maintain stability. Alastor snapped out of his stupor, scrambling around to grab onto anything solid. Static and swirls of rich blues and blacks crackled in every physical form within the dream, the golden glowing of the runes nearly catching aflame fighting the offence from inside. Lucifer hopped, panicking, eyes darting between Alastor and the spirit. She kept her eyes locked on his, a silent plea for help, gripping her own wrist to keep stable while holding her palm open. He could escape, even if she had grabbed and held him tight. She was showing him she trusted him. This was an entire human being. Not a trace of the crumbling dream in her form. Deciding quickly, he shifted into demon form and picked her up, shielding her with his wings as he pulled her from the dream sequence into Alastor’s room.  

In his arms, the trusting face started to sway, eyes losing focus as she groaned in pain. The horror struck him as the realisation hit; he now had an entire human to look after. A wounded one at that. He glanced at Alastor, currently splayed across the floor, writhing slightly from the dream dissipating much rougher than Emily’s would have. In a snap decision, Lucifer opened a portal to his tower, carrying his ward to safety, leaving Alastor to wake up alone.  

[dwarf-vader-of-middle-earth]

Just a man doing his man thing, being shirtless to avoid the heat. You'd think living 25 years on swamplands would mean I'm used to this, but fuck no. Shove my ass in the freezer or I'm going to melt like Karlach without any soul coins.

Though dysphoria decided to give me a harsh beating this week, I am a fucking brute and never relented when I trained in MMA even if I got punched in the nose repeatedly, concussed during sparring matches, etc., so honestly dysphoria can try all it wants, but it'd best remember I'm in goddamn charge here, I will fight back, and I will be me.

For all it's worth, my friend and I sparred one day and he took me down but I braced incorrectly and landed on my head, got a concussion, but immediately sprung up within 10 seconds saying, "I'm fine!" And finished the match against him without fail. There were days I'd throw a kick and literally fall on my ass but I got right back up to try again. The ex-military teacher did one-on-one matches of grappling for years with me, knowing I was the tiniest guy but I had strength and potential and he made damn well sure I worked at that.

So if that ain't man enough for my dysphoria, I have no idea what is. But it's man enough for me, and I am glad of my accomplishments!!

[qogoist]

Jae x Alethea 14

Heinrix x Alethea 25

Marazhai x Alethea 35

14. ...casually.

Alethea had spent the last hour or so meticulously disassembling and cleaning every part of her rifle, her pistols, and most of her armor. After wading through swampland and fighting several entrenched battles, during their last mission, they certainly needed it.

Now, she stared at it all blankly and wondered if she still had the energy to reassemble everything.

It was for that reason that she didn't hear the quiet steps of Jae as she approached her, and almost drew a knife when she suddenly hugged her from behind to press a kiss on her cheek, then, as Alethea turned towards her, another one on her lips.

"Are you still at it, shereen?" Jae's eyes flicked to the weapon parts laid out on the table. "You know you do have servants for exactly such a thing."

"And you know that I don't like other people touching my weapons. If you want something done right..."

"...do it yourself. I know, I know." Jae grinned at her and pulled one of the nearby chairs closer. "At least let me help."

25. ...as a "yes".

Interrogator von Calox was not a man ruled by emotion. That was what he kept telling himself, at least. In fact, he had spent the majority of his life trying to purge every sense of emotion from his mind until nothing but cold, calculated logic remained.

Still, he found himself here, late at night, in the quarters of the Rogue Trader von Valancius - Alethea, he reminded himself - sitting on a rather uncomfortable couch next to her. Only inches separated them.

The impropriety of the situation was not lost on him.

"Lord Captain, I..."

"That's Alethea. We've gone over this before." She regarded him with inscrutable green eyes, her lips a thin line.

"Alethea... I... We... This cannot go on. I am an Agent of the Inquisition and you are, well... " He motioned towards her. There were many things he wanted to say, yet none felt adequate. "... you."

Her eyes narrowed and jaw tensed ever so slightly, the only signs of the emotions boiling underneath the surface. Still, her voice stayed cool and measured. "So what is it you propose?"

"I will inform the Lord Inquisitor of my progress and request to be reassigned. I can find passage on the next imperial voidship we encounter. I will be gone before you know it."

She tilted her head to the side and simply kept silent while her deep green eyes bore into his soul. His heart quickened as she moved closer and he inhaled her scent - floral, yet earthy. It reminded him of his ancestral home on Guisorn III.

Then, her voice barely a whisper, she asked: "And if I asked you to stay? Would you?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he simply closed what little distance was left between them and kissed her.

35. ...to gain something.

She was still nursing several cuts and bruises, as well as at least three broken ribs, when Alethea followed the Drukhari that had brought them here.

She swallowed bile, and a portion of her pride, as she schooled her face into a pleasant, yet commanding smile. She patiently listened to Marazhai explain his plan, no, his fantasies of vengeance, nodding along and asking questions whenever necessary. Men, whether human or xenos, it seemed, very much enjoyed feeling important.

When he removed the bent plate from his shoulder, revealing the pale skin and taught muscles underneath, she was painfully reminded of her own throbbing wounds. She pushed the thought aside. There were more important things right now.

Marazhai, it seemed, had mistaken her expression for interest, and had seized her chin with a clawed hand, regarding her with dilated pupils as he leaned close.

"I can show you that world, Alethea. I can teach you. If you do as you are told."

Anger burned through her veins and made her heart beat faster. She was no pet to be handled like this. Not ever again. And yet... She needed him if she wanted to escape this place. And she had come too far to die in this abhorrent place.

She leaned in, closing what little distance remained between them, and hungrily pressed her lips to his. Much to her relief he returned the kiss eagerly, after a moment of surprise.

She could taste copper in her mouth and see blood - her blood - on Marazhai's lips when he finally drew back. He licked her blood off his lips, tasting it with predatory satisfaction. "What an eager little pet. Good."

His smile turned sinister as he pushed her back, finally releasing her chin. "Go carry out my orders. And don't forget, if we meet Yremeryss, she is mine." He picked up the plate again and slapped it back into place with a swift motion. "Go now. I am finished with you. For now."

[ciquery]

"In Jungian circles, shame is often referred to as the swampland of the soul... The swampland of the soul is an important place to visit, but you would not want to live there. What I'm proposing is that we learn how to wade through it. We need to see that standing on the shore and catastrophizing about what could happen if we talked honestly about our fears is actually MORE painful than grabbing the hand of a trusted companion and crossing the swamp."

Brown, Brene (2020). The Things That Get in the Way. The Gifts of Imperfection: 10th Anniversary Edition (pp. 49-50). Random House.

[satoshi-mochida]

Nintendo 64 - Nintendo Switch Online adds Shadow Man, Turok 2: Seeds of Evil - Gematsu

Nintendo 64 – Nintendo Switch Online has added Akklaim-published titles Shadow Man and Turok 2: Seeds of Evil, Nintendo announced.

Here is an overview of each game, via the back of their box:

Shadow Man

He is coming. Stalking criminals in spirit world and real world. A possessed man is coming, a voodoo mask in his chest and lines of power in his back. Shadow Man is coming. Trailing evil from Liveside to Deadside. To stop an apocalypse. To save your soul.

Stalk Criminals Across Two Worlds – Explore crime scenes in the Louisiana Swampland, a New York Tenement, a Texas Prison, the Asylum, and many other locales.

Unravel the Mysteries of Deadside 0 Gather sinister voodoo artifact in order to solve puzzles.

Live the Nightmare – Over 40 Immersive cut scenes and hours of in-game speech.

Send Evil Back to Darkness – Go in armed with high-caliber guns or soul-destroying voodoo power.

Turok 2: Seeds of Evil

Only evil this dark could bring him back. Only a game this big can do him justice.

Pick off distant enemies with deadly sniper weapons.

Ferocious multi-player deathmatches!

Watch a trailer below.

October 2024 Game Updates: Nintendo 64 – Nintendo Switch Online

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