#Things to do in Poplar

[itspileofgoodthings]

also I don’t know why but one of my favorite side plots is the Frank Westcott one where he orchestrates his daughter’s marriage to the guy by playing everyone’s characters perfectly and then telling Anne that there’s more than one way to skin a cat

[mistertemporaryman]

I wasn't sure to take your tags on my posts as complex yearning or hyperactive silliness from seeing my posts but I figured both are fine and your tags made me laugh because I feel like I'm silly in a similar way, bravo dude thank you for the laughs and the compliments 🥰😘

You cute, that thang doth be thangin quite thangily, and I stand firm by earlier statements on the mystical powers of queer mullet pussy

But if I were ever to be quite that down bad to unrequited simp in earnest via System of a Down lyrics I'd at least have the common decency and shame to keep it in the DMs. Pay me little to no mind in this Smaug cave of hoarded tumblr booty

[inbabylontheywept]

Would you mind sharing the psalm and why you felt that person was the most humanist Mormon? I'm not religious at all but I find these sort of things very interesting.

In exchange I could offer the reason for my url ?

I'm warning you, this is kind of a mega essay, and it's fucking unhinged. Click at your own risk.

(Alright. You clicked.)

Psalms 137

By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept

when we remembered Zion.

There on the poplars

we hung our harps,

for there our captors asked us for songs,

our tormentors demanded songs of joy;

they said, “Sing us one of the songs of Zion!”

How can we sing the songs of the Lord

while in a foreign land?

If I forget you, Jerusalem,

may my right hand forget its skill.

May my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth

if I do not remember you,

if I do not consider Jerusalem

my highest joy.

Remember, Lord, what the Edomites did

on the day Jerusalem fell.

“Tear it down,” they cried,

“tear it down to its foundations!”

Daughter Babylon, doomed to destruction,

happy is the one who repays you

according to what you have done to us.

Happy is the one who seizes your infants

and dashes them against the rocks.

———

Mormonism has layers. Different cores of believers, cultures within itself. The largest group of Mormons also dominate its image within the larger culture. You know them as the nerdy, cheerful, bubbly dorks on South Park, or the hopelessly naive childlike weirdos from the Book of Mormon musical. Strangely sanitized, "wholesome" people that are, clearly, unwhole. Missing some essential part of the human experience.

(Pain, maybe?)

I think that embracing this image is letting Mormonism view itself as what it wishes it was. A group with all its rough edges sanded off, all its raw and desperate humanity scrubbed away. A clean and godly and slightly unsettling image of joy.

That isn't how it started.

Now, most people know the story of Joseph Smith. Fourteen year old farm boy starts a cult because the whole world if full of idiots, I won't repeat it because you've probably already got it from South Park. But at some point that weirdo cult did become a religion, and I would point to that moment as the Mormon War of 1838.

I don't know how far after the founding that was. Enough that Joseph Smith was a grown man. Enough that the Mormons had around 15-25 thousand members. They'd moved to the Illinois-Missouri area and were establishing settlements.

(They creeped the locals out. Of course they creeped the locals out.)

Eventually, they got pushed out of the county they'd claimed. Jackson County, it was. The state couldn't actually take that county from the people that expelled them, so to try and make the Mormons "whole" for the land they'd bought (ignoring the houses and farms they'd already set up) it gave them a new county.

Next election that came around, that county was sieged. Voting was blocked. Now, the people of the state were terrified that this weirdo voting block was going to take them over. They probably weren't wrong. Some former Mormons had straggled in from the county revealing a frankly corrupt land dealthat the early church had used to transfer resources to itself, and that served as a tipping point. To prevent their state from becoming a religious basketcase, a mob sieged the Mormon county during the next election.

The state tried to return order by sending the militia in to break up the siege, but the militia mutinied. They joined the siegers. A ground of strange, extremist violent Mormons known as the Danites rode out and attacked local settlements that were known to house the families of the militia members.

The Governor at the time - Lilburn Boggs - sent out an executive decree. The Mormons were traitors, and were to be killed on sight. It is the only religion in the US to have ever had such an order made against it.

The Mormons surrendered their county and went to Nauvoo, Illinois. There were again expelled from that city in 1846, and traveled west.

They died in great numbers and they never forgot the homes they lost.

———

I tried to tell the story as sympathetically to the people of Missouri as I could. The Mormons made messes wherever they went, and they unsettled everyone they interacted with. But they were attacked as well, and had a history of violence against them. It should not be totally surprising that they became insular and strange.

Many (most?) Mormons that learn all of their history wind up leaving the religion. It has twists and turns and knots and it is incredibly, overwhelmingly human. I think that's where the facade of Mormon perfectionism comes from - the shame of that. The desire to be something else. But being human is all I've ever wanted. And occasionally, there are people faithful in the church - layers upon layers deep - that know their history.

And they are angry about it.

I think it's more common than people realize. Did you know that until 1930 Mormons swore literal religious oaths of vengeance against the US government for the deaths of Joseph and Hyrum Smith?

I always felt like these were, in some way, the real Mormons. They knew their history, and they loved their church, and they hated what it had suffered all those years ago.

They scared me, those people. But they seemed complete. More complete than the people that had carved out everything that didn't make them smile. They'd walked into the mirror, and touched their shadow, and danced with. Melded with it.

And I knew a few like that. I was taught by one. And he didn't convince me, but he interested me. Gave me some respect for the people I left behind.

———

In the game Fallout: New Vegas, there is a character named Joshua Graham. He's a Mormon. Not like the silly children in adult bodies that they always use on TV. He has gravitas. He has put away his moral compass before, to pursue the dream of one powerful man. Poured his soul into it, helped that man conquer the whole west in piecemeal. He's a somewhat on the nose analogy of the Mormon people themselves, following Joseph Smith. And when he finally failed, when he fought a battle he could not win on the gates of the Old World Hoover Dam, he was lit on fire and thrown into the Grand Canyon to die.

But he did not die.

He says he survived because the fire in him burned brighter than the fire around him. And it seems that way when you speak with him in game. There is something compellingly bright to him. Not shiny like a new toy, or a Utah teenager that hasn't seem just how grim the world can be. He's something blinding, compelling.

But that brightness casts shadows.

He is vicious. He was saved in the canyon by the family he left, the old Mormons of a new world. And he's trying to find that part of him again, regain the soul he lost pursuing someone else's vision. But that old vicious animal part of the covenant is with him. I see Joshua Graham and I see the animal that the Mormons became to survive the West.

And in the game, there is eventually a choice given.

You can lead the tribe Joshua has joined up with out of their Zion. Their Jackson County Missouri. Peacefully and perfectly and inhumnanly transcendant, the way the Mormons wish they actually were about everything. You can give him the chance to be what Mormonism has always wished it could be. Or you can fight with them and help them reclaim their paradise, but get your hands stuck deep in the muck of this world.

Joshua Graham knows his history. He knows all the homes his people lost. And whatever brightness he's trying to regain, whatever soul he's trying to win back from the world that takes and takes and takes and takes - he wants to give it all up again to let these people keep their home.

He knows his past and he is angry.

And as the player, you help him make peace with one of two things: Being human by being fallen, or keeping his soul at the cost of reliving the ancestral trauma of losing Zion yet again.

Both were pretty visceral decisions for a Mormon teenage Babylon to make.

(Tagging @boonebignaturals in this because I need a witness to my madness.)

[loversmantra]

FREE FALLIN' LOVE ADDICT!

synopsis. satoru's fingers look their best soaking wet.

content. gojo satoru x cisfem!reader. smut. minors do not interact. lowkey... househusband satoru and his working wife. making out. fingering. cum eating. drooling. size difference. not explicitly stated but this definitely reads as sub!satoru. foul language. "gojo satoru has the biggest praise kink in existence," i say from the top of my hill. he's kinda pathetic in this tbh but so am i so it's fine.

title from poplar st by glass animals

wc. 2.3k

message from noe. this started as something very different, very wholesome... then it became this. i was fighting demons. sorry. also this is lowkey my first time doing smut be nice to me pls. anyways @neptuneblue dis one is for you twiiin

satoru’s hands are much bigger than yours.

you’ve known this for a long time, of course. as a teen, he never missed an opportunity to remind you you were smaller than him: whether that be by holding something out of your reach or using that creature of an appendage to cover your entire face and muffle your complaints.

he didn’t outgrow his antics. his hands did, however, get even bigger.

but it’s one thing to know, to have the theoretic knowledge of it in the back of your mind. it’s another to have indisputable proof of it: his huge hand wrapped around your own, both warming it and dwarfing it.

satoru’s had his hands on you since the day you first met. rough, teasing — and later loving. soft. and you’re thinking about them a lot these days. you’re thinking of his hands everywhere.

his longs fingers wrapped around your throat. snug around your waist, tight on your hips. deep inside you. you’re thinking about it, a lot.

the wonderful contrast of cherry red flush on his cheeks, down his neck, down his heaving chest. the heat of his breath on your lips, crazed, feverish, delirious. wide smile, all teeth, as he puts his fingers on his tongue and sucks. baby blues rolling back, away from the conscious world and into something he keeps on a tight, tight leash. he’s so beautiful when he gets like this. you want him.

you’re thinking about it so much, these days. you’re thinking about him.

you’re thinking today might be the boiling point.

you’re thinking satoru looks way too good in this outfit… and his hand is just so much bigger than yours.

your workday ended with a text from your beloved, urging you to hurry home, because he had a lil’ surprise for you. knowing satoru, you were fully expecting to find him laying on the bed naked and oiled up, but the sight you were greeted with when you arrived home was very different — though no less delectable.

the "surprise" itself: satoru in the kitchen, preparing dinner for you. he turned to face you when the door closed softly.

and while this might seem strange to anyone — anyone except you — when paired with his text telling you to hurry, you knew exactly where his intentions lied. you’ve been experiencing him long enough.

he wanted to seduce you. and fuck him, it worked.

not like you needed much help there: you’ve been thinking about jumping his bones, among other things, twenty-four seven, for days. you’re wrapped around his finger. head over heels. thoroughly whipped.

but to be fair, who could blame you?

briefly, you pondered. how wonderful it is, you thought, to have this man taking care you after a long day. how wonderful it is, to be loved by such a cosmic being. to come home and find the house clean. to come home and smell dinner cooking.

you pondered — but not for long. something else drew your attention away from his loving acts of service.

black slacks stretched around his toned legs, glorious ass on full display — you could have bitten him right there. his pristine white shirt was tight on his torso, showing off his rippling muscles as he expertly chopped vegetables. his sleeves — struggling to keep his biceps in check, it almost seemed — were rolled up to his elbows. displaying his hands and forearms perfectly. damn him.

to top it all off: an apron tight around his slim waist. picture perfect househusband.

he looked good. good enough to eat.

and you could tell he thought the same of you in your tailored suit. you saw his eyes darken from all the way across the room.

this was all part of his plan, of course.

he smiled. washed his hands, didn’t wipe away the droplets. he raked his eyes all over you, dark, wanting.

“hi, baby,” he purred.

you took off your shoes hastily, hurried to his side, pushed him against the counter and pushed your lips against his…

…to end up here, dress shirt wide open, tongue down his throat, arms pinned to the kitchen island by his large, large hands. his poor apron forgotten across the room.

there isn’t an inch of free space between the two of you — satoru simply refuses to let you drift away. you can feel his impatience all over him, little whines escaping his lips that you drink eagerly, narrow hips pressed to the furniture as if to give himself relief. you won’t have it, you refuse. his relief will be you or nothing.

“how was your day, satoru?” you smile against him.

he returns it, body shivering at his name falling from your lips. his hot mouth trails down to your shoulder, to leave no part of you untouched, untasted. “missed you,” he whispers with a push of his hips against you.

“hm, is that it?”

a hand leaves yours to flatten on your belly — he pushes you down easily and takes his rightful place, right on top of you. white hair tickles your skin as he makes his way back up until… “yeah,” he grins, eyes so dark you can barely breathe. his smile is all teeth. “that’s it.”

without your permission your thighs move to rub against one another. it doesn’t escape him. you try to turn your head away, to flee from his teasing. he follows. he always does.

“look at me, pretty,” he bites into your neck. “you want something from me?”

you do — you want his fingers knuckles deep inside you. and the absolute best part is, you know how bad he wants it, too, to see you come undone with his touch. you see it, you feel it in his every move. the need.

you feel it in the tight grip his hand has on your own, on your waist to keep you pressed against the marble. in the very, very slight tremor of his thighs close to yours, kept tightly under his control. in the tensing, untensing of his every muscle — restraint he’s giving his all to maintain. in the glorious pink of his cheeks, the sweat already accumulating on his flawless skin. he wants it. he wants you to ask for it.

but your satoru’s been quite spoiled lately. he’s gotten used to getting his way every time, little prince. it wouldn’t hurt him to work for it. you want to make him work for it.

you don’t answer him. instead, you keep him busy with your tongue tracing his lips, one hand trailing your nails down the soft hair of his undercut — earning you another full body shiver — while with the other you unbuckle your belt on your own.

it’s easy, after that, to shove your hand under your panties. satoru pushes himself off you, to better watch.

you make a show of it, just for him. making sure to really coat your fingers with your slick. two tight circles on your clit aren’t enough to relieve the pressure, but you trust him to come around and take care of it — he’s so good at taking care of you. you throw your head back with a soft whine, arch yourself into him, and in the hot air you share with him your hand comes back up, fingers glistening.

he looks jealous. already, he’s moving — moving to take your hand in his and taste — but you won’t have it. before he can do anything about it, you pop your fingers into your mouth, sucking yourself off them.

satoru’s eyebrows knit briefly, but his smile widens. his breaths are reduced to pathetic, shallow pants. if you push him a little more, will you get him drooling, tongue hanging out like a puppy? you bet you could. but today isn’t the day to find out. you want his fucking fingers.

he doesn’t let you think about it any longer. “can i?” he rasps, leaning down. his tongue runs over his teeth.

you don’t think about it. you nod your head, and he dives.

licking into your mouth desperately, moaning like he's having the time of his life. it’s so easy to meet him halfway, to suck his tongue in your mouth, to swallow all his little whimpers — so good, baby, fuck — you want it all, so you take it all.

he only stops to rest against your mouth and whine, “you taste so good, i wish you could eat yourself out.”

he catches you completely off guard. you have no answer to that, so brilliantly, you say, “huh?”

he noses at your cheek and explains, “i want to eat your cum straight from your mouth.”

and that’s enough of that — you’ve run out of patience. you think you’ve wrecked him enough, in any case, to hear such things spewing out of his mouth. you feel him throbbing. you are, too.

“can’t have that, angel,” you pant against him. “but you can make me cum.”

you can feel his smile. “i thought you’d never ask.”

his fingers slide down your body, under your pants, taking the same route yours did. only it’s much harder for him — they’re much bigger.

satoru wastes no time. the stretch is immediate, big finger pushing into you slowly. your hand knitted in his hair tugs him down to you. his moan is even louder than yours.

he stays there for a moment, savoring it, licking at your lips, your neck, the underside of your jaw — moaning like an animal in heat, like he could cry from the relief your hot walls hugging his fingers bring.

cherry red on his cheeks, down his neck and the glimpse of his heaving chest his shirt gives you. hot pants fanning your lips. crazed. feverish. delirious. wide smile, canines glimmering in the light. oh, you’ve been waiting for this. you want more of him, you need more of him. your hands move against your will, almost tearing open his clothing. a huff of laughter warms your cheek.

but your love is as impatient as you.

a second finger pumps into you, slow and steady. you mewl, and with your encouragement satoru rises on his elbow to increase the pace.

“feel good, sweetheart?” he pants.

you couldn’t keep quiet if you tried.

“yeah,” you smile. “i feel fucking good.”

then you sink your teeth straight into his neck and delight at the wild buck of his hips, the sinful cry he gifts you.

his entire body moves with him. his hips grind into you, shameless, desperate, following his hand’s movement — and so does his tongue, fucking into your mouth like he wants you everywhere, wants to be inside you everywhere, wants to bury himself into you. drool drops down his chin. you drink it.

every beautiful sound that comes from him, every whimper, every harsh breath, every high-pitched moan is rewarded with a soft murmur of yours — so good, angel, so good for me, so good! his pace increases, his bicep is bulging, his back tenses, his eyes cross, he’s so close, you’ve got him right where you want him.

the pressure in your lower belly grows stronger with every expert stroke. he touches everywhere, a tender caress pumped into you by the strengths of his arm and pelvis together. mimicked perfectly by his tongue tugging at your lips, stroking your own, invading your mouth. you feel it grow, grow, until—

you come undone right there on his hand, in your pants, with a loud cry of his name, digging his nails into his shoulders — in retaliation, and partly to stave of his own orgasm, you’re sure of it, his bites the soft flesh of your neck, a wail dying in the back of his throat.

you come down together, chests rising and falling against one another, hot breaths warming the air around you. he’s still throbbing against your thighs, fingers slowed to shallow thrusting, as if he couldn’t bear to let the moment end just yet. you force him to still by smothering his hand with your thighs.

satoru makes his way back to your lips, leaving behind a trail of wet kisses and a singular bite on your cheek, one you answer with a giggle.

“that was a good one, baby,” he says against your mouth. “how many more can i give you?”

“depends. how many more can you take?”

he doesn’t answer. instead, he smiles. his hand resurfaces from your underwear, soaked, glistening. he takes a moment to rub his fingers together, admire the slick, the feel of it all over his skin. you take the time he gives you to admire him.

he’s so beautiful, when he gets like this.

his hand rises, heading for his face. your gut clenches, thighs rubbing together in anticipation, a deep breath filling your lungs—

his tongue lolls out and his soaked fingers come to take their rightful place right onto it. his lips close around his hand. his cheeks hollow as he sucks.

baby blues rolling to the back of his head, satoru trembles, wracked with a full body shudder and a moan so sinfully loud you swear it echoes against the walls. his throbbing cock rubs on your thigh.

he allows himself one, two, three finger-deep thrusts into his mouth, practically fucking himself, gagging on his own hand, putting on the most wonderful show for you. just to make sure there’s not a droplet left.

then his fingers leave his mouth with a loud pop! and he looks back down at you. crazed. feverish. delirious. eyes so dark you can barely breathe.

looking good enough to eat.

later on, after a lot more cum from both parties and a well-deserved bath, you rush into the kitchen, praying your apartment isn’t about to burn down. satoru was, after all, supposed to be making you dinner.

when you lean over the countertops, you find that the stove was never on.

LOVERSMANTRA © 2024, all rights reserved. do not translate, crosspost, or copy. steal my work and i'll steal your kneecaps. bitch.

[themistdragon]

Callum, talking to Ethari post-reunion: So you have your husband back

Ethari: Yes, I do

Callum You must be... re-leafed he's okay

Ethari: ...Oh, yes. I must admit, when I saw him for the first time, I got quite a bit... sappy

Callum: I understand how you feel. When I saw Rayla after two years, I fir-got how much I loved seeing her face

Ethari: That’s sweet. How are you enjoying the Silvergrove, by the way? Have you tree-ted yourself to the bakery, yet?

Callum: Oh, the moonberry surprises are the best! I can see why they're so poplar

Ethari: I know, right? They're just the thing to spruce up your day

Callum: I tried some of the other pastries, but in comparison to the surprises, they were just oak-kay

Ethari: The surprises are delicious. When my husband and I were younger, I remember how he wood pine after those desserts as if they were the answer to life.

Callum: He's got good taste. Do you think you could convince him to branch out and try some tarts from Katolis?

Ethari: I'm not sure... but it wood-n't hurt to try

Runaan:

[rindragon-from-twewy]

Tracklist:

Life Itself - Desuhiko

Youth - Yakou

Season 2 Episode 3 - Vivia

Pork Soda - Shinigami

Mama's Gun - Zilch

Cane Shuga - Yomi

[Premade Sandwiches] - Kurumi

The Other Side Of Paradise - Yuma

Take A Slice - Halara

Poplar St. - Fubuki

Agnes - Makoto

God the first draft of this had so much info dumping that this is honestly less then a quarter of what it was. Sumn tells me nobody has the patience to read every single thing I have to say so I'll keep it brief!

Tldr; This is my favourite album of all time and my favourite fanart format is when people redraw characters on to the cover.

The track list is what character in mdarc I'd assign to each song on the album, even though I chose to only do the detectives in the artwork. This is because I thought it looked cooler for it to only be the detectives (minus Zange, sorry dude, I can't draw old people and there weren't enough spots anyways-) And also because I want to do the back cover art but as Kanai Ward Residents/Peacekeepers.

Tbh I think the whole theme of the album itself can be applied to Raincode really easily beyond just "I imagine this character in my head when I listen to this song". They both deal with how to define what humanity is, showing it's ugliest sides through horrible but strangely beautiful means. If you haven't already, I highly and fully biasedly recommend listening to it!

[apiswitchcraft]

understanding norse runes: a historical and modern perspective pt. 3

Sorry it's taken me so long everyone, holidays and school starting back up had me really distracted.

For part 1 click here, for part 2 click here.

ᛏ tiwaz

ANGLO-SAXON:

"Tir is a guiding star, well keeps faith with princes; it is on course over the mists of night, never failing."

NORWEGIAN:

"Tiw is the one-handed member of the Aesir often has the smith to blow."

ICELANDIC:

"Tyr is the one-handed As and leavings of the wolf and king of temples."

INTERPRETATION: Law and order, justice, victory, but victory for the people, not just the individual. Tyr (this rune's namesake), as the god of war, is also a god of the people, much in the same way Ares is. This rune emphasizes self-sacrifice in the name of common good, in order the serve a larger purpose. However, Tyr also embodies the wisdom of the goddess Athena, also a goddess of war. You have to be reliable, hard working, and loyal in order to achieve success, but you also have to have a plan, gather intel, do research. Think about what you did to deserve your successes: it's not just about the end goal, but the path you took too. As a bindrune, this stave can be good for summoning courage and energy needed for change, especially in legal matters. However, if your motivations are not pure, or actions not just, Tyr will just as much take action against you as for you. Use this rune if you need help bolstering your leadership skills, or for reinforcing a position you already have. Take decisive action, assert yourself, and take on obstacles with gusto.

KEY WORDS: Courage, loyalty, justice, wisdom, determination

ASSOCIATIONS: Tyr

ᛒ berkano

ANGLO-SAXON:

"Poplar/Birch bears no fruit, bears without seed suckers, for from its leaves it's generated, splendid are its branches, gloriously adorned its lofty crown, lifting to the sky."

NORWEGIAN:

"Birch is the greenest-leaved of branches; Loki was lucky in his deception."

ICELANDIC:

"Birch is leafy branch and little tree and youthful wood"

INTERPRETATION: Meaning "birch," this rune represents birth and rebirth, especially when created out of very little. New beginnings, or a restart of something old. But just in as much as it can be ascribed to the cycle of life, this rune is also connected to the cycle of death, as they go hand-in-hand. Birch is a hardy tree that grows in cold climates, bracing the bitterest winters to be cut down and used for maypoles at the coming of spring. This stave is especially useful in what is called "feminine" magic: relating to menstruation, birth, protection of young girls, or sensuality. Use Berkano to call upon the power of Frigg during wedding preparations, Freyja during times of courtship, and Hella during times requiring vengeance or after betrayal. Prosperity and beauty are indicated, as well as a nurturing, protective force. Lots of interpretations relate this rune to the Divine Feminine, or the Goddess archetype.

KEY WORDS: Fertility, new beginnings, femininity,

ASSOCIATIONS: Frigg, Freyja, Hella

ᛖ ehwaz

ANGLO-SAXON:

"Horse is a joy to princes in presence of earls, Horse in pride of its hooves, when rich men, mounted, bandy words, and is to the restless ever a comfort."

INTERPRETATION: Relationships and friendship, literally meaning "horse," the interpretation stems from the trust and love between rider and horse. On any journey into the unknown, you should always bring a friend. Mutual trust is important, though, and that takes a good amount of work to achieve. Harmony between to people is indicated, but loss of individuality does not accompany it. Reliability and loyalty are important qualities in this situation, not intolerance or jadedness. This harmony can also be achieved between two unlike things, two opposites: man and woman, physical and psychic, shaman and god. It is a good rune for meditation with the gods, as it can help bridge the gap between the mortal and immortal realms. Because ehwaz means "horse" this rune can also indicate travel or change. A steady and progressive change is underway, and consistency is key to maintain it.

KEY WORDS: Partnership, harmony, travel

ASSOCIATIONS: Sleipnir, Freyr

ᛗ mannaz

ANGLO-SAXON:

"The mirthful man is dear to kinsmen, yet every man must fail his fellow since the will of the Lord dooms that the frail flesh to earth be taken."

NORWEGIAN:

"Man is an augmentation of the dust; great is the claw of the hawk."

ICELANDIC:

"Man is the joy of man and augmentation of the dust and adorner of ships."

INTERPRETATION: Literally meaning "man," mannaz represents the journey towards self-actualization, achieving an internal balance: between mortal and divine, between male and female, between conscious and unconscious. Take responsibility for yourself, and have respect for everything around you: nature, your fellow man, the gods, our ancestors, and your future. This is the stave of humanity, and all the flaws and follies that may accompany it, but recognizing them as inherently Human, and therefore not all that negative. It represents an awakening, like removing the blinders from a horse, so to speak. It addresses question of identity and purpose, one's function in society. However, this rune requires cooperation, for the user not to fight their "destiny" (which is self-made), or to at least not to abandon it. This rune represents the choices a person is constantly presented with, the same choices everyone is presented with, as a collective. It serves as a reminder that we are never alone, and while we are constantly reliant on others, we should also allow others to be reliant on us.

KEY WORDS: Identity, self-actualization, community, humanity

ASSOCIATIONS: Heimdall, Odin-Vili-Ve

ᛚ laguz

ANGLO-SAXON:

"The sea seems interminable to people if they shall venture on rolling ship and the waves of the sea terrify them, and the sea-stallion heeds not its bridle."

NORWEGIAN:

"Water is where a cascade falls from a mountain-side but ornaments are made of gold."

ICELANDIC:

"Water is welling stream and broad kettle and land of the fish."

INTERPRETATION: With the translation being "lake," the laguz rune represents a lot of what the element of water represents: creativity, visions/dreams, emotions, and vital energy (coming from the idea of the Niflheimr). As with the flow of a rushing river, it is safer to go along with the current than to fight it. A period of trials leading to personal growth is indicated, something that will be difficult, but not outright impossible to overcome. It may be that something hidden is soon revealed. You might feel overwhelmed, or quite put upon, but remember that there is nothing wrong with you, and all shall soon come to pass. Representing the essence of life, laguz can have alternative meanings involving birth, reproduction, healing, psychic powers. It's usage in matters involving the female reproductive and menstrual cycle is said to be very powerful.

KEY WORDS: Intuition, femininity, adaptability, emotional depth

ASSOCIATIONS: Nerthus

ᛝ ingwaz

ANGLO-SAXON:

"Ing was first among the East-Danes seen by men, till he to the east over waves went, his wain after ran, thus the Heardings named the hero."

INTERPRETATION: Ingwaz, representing fertility and masculinity, was said to translate to "Yngvi," thought to be another name for Freyr. It is the time before actualization, a period of gestation, in a sense. This is a potent state, a time where you have to have patience, and let things come to be on their own time. Ingwaz is a rune of transformation, of birth and death, of sensuality and love. However, not so much in the same way that Freyja was a goddess of love, but in the way that Freyr could be interpreted as a god of love; which is more about virility and sex than love. However, if your issue does not relate to interpersonal relationships, this is definitely a rune of nature. This is the stave of the farmer, of the father. Look towards the masculine figure in your life for answers, whether they will provide it to you, or are the crux of your issues.

KEY WORDS: Virility, fertility, potential, masculinity,

ASSOCIATIONS: Freyr

ᛞ dagaz

ANGLO-SAXON:

"Day is God's sending, dear to men the great lord's light means mirth and happiness to rich and poor, useful to all."

INTERPRETATION: Meaning "day," this rune represents clarity, awakening, opening the third eye, consciousness, hope and happiness. Often given very little context other than it's interpretation being overall positive, the dagaz rune should be invoked whenever you need a turning point, or clarification. It is the light of day at dawn, that brings recompense to the fearful and retribution against the hateful. It reminds of the cyclical nature of life, as bad times come, so does new hope emerge. New opportunities are being presented to you, basically on a silver platter. When surrounded by other runes, it turns basically a whole reading towards the positive.

KEY WORDS: Awareness, dawn, hope, happiness

ASSOCIATIONS: Day, Odin

ᛟ othala

ANGLO-SAXON:

"An estate is very dear to every man if he may there rightly and peacefully enjoy in the hall frequent harvest."

INTERPRETATION: The rune of the hearth and home, othala means, most literally "ancestral property," which aligns very similarly to the divinatory interpretation. It promises safety and stability, our relatives, our roots. However, it also warns us to not hide behind our pasts, and to be constantly evolving along with the rest of society. At the end of the day, we must always have something to come home to, a strong foundation. But if this foundation is unsteady, like a toxic relationship is, it can harm us more than help us. It represents everything inherited, psychological traits, land, a home, a name, family, a community. It represents the separation between the here and now, and the then and there, between mortal and immortal. For this reason, it can be a rune to represent Odin.

KEY WORDS: Heritage, inheritance, legacy, tradition

ASSOCIATIONS: Odin

[mediumgayitalian]

The rules of Persephone’s garden don’t apply to him.

He’s not entirely sure why. He’s mortal, or at least half. No ichor flows through his veins, not that it helped Persephone. Perhaps it is because he already spends so much of his time in his father’s kingdom; perhaps the Fruit of the Underworld has lost its potency so far removed from the Ancient Lands, so long after Pam’s death.

Regardless, Nico gets to indulge.

Anything from the roundest, sweetest apples to the bitter tang of pink grapefruits, he has sat under the poplar trees and devoured. He likes fruit more than any other food group, more than any other taste. He has always had a sweet tooth. And his eyes eat as much as his lips, drinking in the glimmering sheen of dimpled lime peel and delicate pearls of round concord grapes. He has made himself sick eating strawberry after strawberry.

But his favourite, without question or pause, is a clementine.

The best he’s had, secretly, was not in his stepmother’s garden but in a tiny orchard in Algeria. Engineered for generations by human hand and grown under wide, sparkling sun, the skin had been bright and fragrant, pith minimal and pleasantly bitter, and thin-skinned globules of flesh so plump with juice they’d begged to be burst under his teeth. He’s dreamed about those clementines every week since he’d eaten them. If it wouldn’t kill him, he’d jump to the north African country every day and buy them in swathes.

Unfortunately, at camp, he’s stuck with what he’s got.

But they aren’t so bad.

“You have a sweet tooth worse than anyone I’ve ever met,” Will grumbles, poking at his shoulder. “And when she was 11, Kayla lived off Nerd ropes and Gushers for two months.”

Nico cracks a smile. “Kayla’s continued existence astounds me.”

“I do genuinely think she’s a medical marvel.”

“Don’t tell her that.”

“Believe me, I wasn’t planning on it.”

For a while there’s nothing except the tearing sound of Nico ripping off the peel of his citrus. He’s skilled enough to remove it in one go, but sometimes, as a random challenge, he tries to remove it in a certain shape. Today, for no particular reason, the peel comes off in the shape of a heart.

“I can feel you eyeing this,” he says, shooting an exasperated look over his shoulder. Will smiles small and guiltless, in response, raising and dropping his shoulder.

“Dunno what you’re talking about. Just wishin’ you’d eat a vegetable or two.”

Liar. Well, that exact sentence isn’t a lie — Will is such a bad vegetable pusher that he is often teased about secretly owning a farm — but it’s not what he’s thinking about. Nico isn’t stupid.

He sighs. “Here,” he grumbles, wedging his thumbs between the two hemispheres of the fruit and tearing. “You can have half.”

Will brightens. His smile is like clouds clearing, like the give of a snapping elastic. Startling, demanding, storm-cracking and loud. Eye-catching in every possible way.

“Thanks!”

He holds out a cupped palm, and Nico rests half the fruit inside it, fingers brushing the heel of his hand for no justifiable reason. It’s callused — most of his hand is callused. Nico wants to trace the outline of them, with his fingers and then his tongue.

He watches as Will brings the fruit to his mouth, happily munching on the whole thing without bothering to separate the sections, like always. Nico winces.

“You’re barbaric.”

“It goes to the same place! There is not logical reason to eat it section by section!”

“If the sections weren’t meant to be eaten one by one, they wouldn’t be naturally separated, you heathen.”

“Corn is naturally separated. D’you eat that kernel by kernel?”

Nico hates being friends with smart people.

Will laughs, and Nico’s eyes flutter shut, savouring.

“That’s what I thought.” He pops the last bite in his mouth, chewing and swallowing and smiling his dazzling smile, after, sticky citrus juice making his lips look shiny. “Thanks for sharing, Neeks.”

“Course,” murmurs Nico quietly, hiding his smile behind a segment of fruit. “Anytime.”

[seat-safety-switch]

Are you the kind of person who loves trees? Many folks are. Even though trees have killed lots of our most-beloved celebrities, a lot of you have a yen for our arboreal pals. They can do no wrong in our minds, and so we tolerate their slow invasion of our properties.

Where I live, we have a sort of feral invasion of poplars. Genius folks who started the city brought them from far away and put them all over the place to provide resale value and pretty green colours, without realizing that they'd get big and mess up the sidewalks. In response, fifty-plus years later, the city has decided to just kill 'em. Fuck those trees, they say, they're near the end of their lives anyway. Keep those taxes low, they say, while driving from site to site in brand new Ram Rebels equipped with the ultra-off-road luxury package.

As a result, a lot of local folks have been galvanized into political action for the first time in their lives. Sure, a lot of horrifying shit has happened in the recent past that should have outraged them more, but these are trees we're talking about. Do not fuck with our trees! Things got so bad that the Mayor decided to stop going to "public engagement" sessions and sent his subordinate instead. His subordinate got his ass whooped so hard by tree people at the last one that he now smells permanently like spruce.

So: more trees? This, too, angers the local populace, who don't want the city to pull up their existing, beautiful trees, and replace them with an inferior local breed. Those trees are where my children used to play! You're destroying history! The city had to pick some kind of compromise, find a useful scapegoat, and coincidentally dispose of the entire contents of the police vehicle seizure lot.

That's where I come in. Sure, it hurts to crash a bunch of decrepit, unregistered 80s-drug-dealer Cadillacs into these old trees, just because the city wants an excuse to get rid of them. It's even sort of demented that I do so with a pine air freshener hanging off the mirror (you really don't want to breathe what these things smell like after a few decades.) And it's not great for what chiropractors call "the back and neckal area." They let me keep the Caddys as payment, though, and I've got a great bodyman who will get them shipshape as soon as he comes back from his jail term for chaining himself to a poplar and screaming obscenities at the Mayor outside of City Hall. Don't worry: I've got lots of new trees growing through the old cars in my backyard for him to hug.

[apoemaday]

Poplar Street

by Chen Chen

Oh. Sorry. Hello. Are you on your way to work, too? I was just taken aback by how you also have a briefcase, also small & brown. I was taken by how you seem, secretly, to love everything. Are you my new coworker? Oh. I see. No. Still, good to meet you. I’m trying out this thing where it’s good to meet people. Maybe, beyond briefcases, we have some things in common. I like jelly beans. I’m afraid of death. I’m afraid of farting, even around people I love. Do you think your mother loves you when you fart? Does your mother love you all the time? Have you ever doubted? I like that the street we’re on is named after a tree, when there are none, poplar or otherwise. I wonder if a tree has ever been named after a street, whether that worked out. If I were a street, I hope I’d get a good name, not Main or One-Way. One night I ran out of an apartment, down North Pleasant Street — it was soft & neighborly with pines & oaks, it felt too hopeful, after what happened. After my mother’s love became doubtful. After I told her I liked a boy & she wished I had never been born. After she said she was afraid of me, terrified I might infect my brothers with my abnormality. Sometimes, parents & children become the most common strangers. Eventually, a street appears where they can meet again. Or not. I’ve doubted my own love for my mother. I doubt. Do I have to forgive in order to love? Or do I have to love for forgiveness to even be possible? What do you think? I’m trying out this thing where questions about love & forgiveness are a form of work I’d rather not do alone. I’m trying to say, Let’s put our briefcases on our heads, in the sudden rain, & continue meeting as if we’ve just been given our names.

[ovenbakedbones]

JASMINE!

chapter 2 !

pairing : mafia!yoongi x (eventual) str1pper!reader

genre : romance???? mystery? smut??

summary : yoongi gets tired of seeing you only once a night for a few minutes, so he takes it into his own hands.

note : sorry this took so long ! i’ll start uploading frequently i swear ‼️

thank you for enjoying chapter 1 !

———————————————————————————————

yoongi spends the next week spending as much time with you as possible. its not enough.

everyday, he sits at the bar, nursing his whiskey until the lights turn red and the music slows. he sits in the leather chair thats centre stage, not too far back, but not too much to expose him. just enough for you to notice him. thats all he needs.

he studies you while you sing, taking note of every mole and freckle that paints your perfect skin, and how your hands wrap around the mic stand in front of you. his favourite part of the night is when your eyes travel towards him. you’ve noticed how he started coming in every night, you’ve heard from the other girls that he has no interest in watching them dance or taking them to a private room, and most importantly, you’ve heard of how he always dashes through the dressing room and to the back door in hopes of catching you.

it is pretty cute how badly he wants you.

namjoon has proved useless at finding information about you. jasmine was clearly a stage name and it’s pretty hard to find someone who disappears after 3 minutes. yoongi has debated putting his men in front of the back door so he has no chance of missing you, but namjoon convinced him that it would probably creep you out.

it’s now a sunday night and yoongi is sat at the bar, waiting for you to perform. jin is off flirting with some of the dancers and yoongi cant help but feel a little stupid obsessing over a woman he knows nothing about. his thoughts are interrupted by the dimming of the lights and he walks to his usual seat, his eyes skimming over the crowd.

there is a certain type of crowd that comes to a strip club on a sunday night, and yoongi isnt especially happy to be lumped in with them. unemployed losers who throw their money at women who want nothing to do with them. he chooses to ignore the irony that he is doing the same thing. if not, worse.

his eyes are glued to you as you take the stage and the music begins to play. you’re wearing a black off the shoulder dress that finishes near the top of your thighs. yoongi cant help but admire your collarbones and the way your hair falls onto your shoulders. you look perfect, as always.

but something about your eyes today look different. almost sad.

family (with suzanna son) - the weeknd, suzanna son

arms like the branches of a poplar tree

eyes like the ocean or the great big blue sea

love just like my mothers with a price, its not free

the music starts playing and yoongi notices that it’s slightly off too, it still has the seductive undertones that you use regularly, but something about the lyrics unsettles him. the rest of the crowd are too busy drooling over your bare legs and figure to notice, but yoongi cannot tear his gaze away from the somber look in your eyes.

voice like my fathers, when he screams the house shakes

dreams like my brother’s, oh, we pray for his sake

hopes just like my mothers, only last till her wake

there’s something eerily beautiful about the way you’re singing tonight. your focus seems to be on the back of the room or the floor instead of eyeing up the customers as if you’re interested. how can someone so melancholy look so beautiful?

thats my family

oh, we dont like eachother very much

oh, im okay with that

but it breaks my mothers heart

yoongi furrows his brows, trying to not listen to the lyrics and soak up the little time he has with you, but he cant help but go over the lyrics in his heart and wonder what happened to change your personality so completely. he’s seen you perform at least 6 consecutive nights, so what is so different about today?

he spends the rest of the song overthinking and his eyes dart up when the music fades out. he blinks and you’re leaving the stage, the money that you collected tucked away into your dress.

he gets ahold of himself and half heartedly walks towards the backstage area. he knows you wont be there but he cant stand the possibility of missing an extra moment with you.

the dancers are used to his presence so they ignore him barging through their space and pushing open the back door and looking down the alley.

his eyes widen and his heart stops when he sees you leant against the brick wall with a cigarette in your hand.

he blinks, half expecting you to disappear, and is pleasantly surprised to see you still standing there, one arm wrapped around yourself and the other hovering near your mouth while you take a drag from your cigarette.

he doesnt have time to think before you notice him and lift your head up, tilting it slightly as you take in his appearance, finally not hidden in darkness.

“guess you finally caught me” you tease and take another drag from your cigarette.

yoongi has to clench his jaw in order to keep it shut. how was your speaking voice as beautiful as your singing voice?

he wants to punch himself for how starstruck he must look. he is in charge of hundreds of people, he deals with criminals on a daily basis, he gets any woman he could ever want. why does he feel like a teenage virgin whenever you look at him?

he clears his throat and leans on the wall next to you, speaking up in a raspy voice.

“oh yeah? you been hiding from me?” he smirks and lights a cigarette of his own.

you smirk and shrug and yoongi forces himself to look away from you. he cannot be one of those losers who can’t even speak to a woman without cumming in their pants.

“i see you’ve become a regular. any particular reason?” you ask innocently and look up at him.

fuck. he’s whipped.

he chuckles and blows some smoke towards your direction “you know damn well why”

you smirk and nod while looking away from him.

“yeah, i have an idea”

yoongi bites back a smile. he’s glad you’re as intoxicating to talk to as you are to look at.

“any particular reason you decided to grace me with your presence this evening?” he says while taking another drag.

you laugh a little “decided to put you out of your misery, i’ve heard enough stories of how you try to beat me here every night”

okay. that’s a little embarrassing. fuck those dancers for snitching on him like that. but at least he can finally talk to you now. maybe he should thank those dancers then?

“yknow, you get caught up in your thoughts alot” you say while looking up at him

he smirks “how observant of you. and here i thought you were too busy eye-fucking me to notice”

you laugh “don’t feel special, i eye-fuck all my customers”

“do you have little after-hour chats with all your customers too?”

you roll your eyes “okay, maybe you can feel a little special”

he smirks and puts out his cigarette.

“so what was with the song today?”

you turn to face him with a raised a brow “what about it?”

“dont bullshit me, it was different than the other days i’ve been here” he scoffs

you turn to press your back against the wall again “now whose the wobservant one?”

“come on, angel. be honest with me”

you tilt your head at him “angel?”

“im not calling you jasmine. i’ll either call you your real name, or angel” he grunts, hoping you’ll tell him your name so he can feel at least a little closer to you.

fuck mystery. he wants to know you.

you smirk “angel is fine”

fucking brat.

he rolls his eyes “so? fess up”

you sigh and put out your cigarette.

“its my birthday”

this catches yoongi off guard a little. he doesnt want to bombard you with questions that you most likely wouldnt answer, but he cant deny his curiosity about why you were so sad on your birthday.

so instead, he settles with ….

“oh. happy birthday”

[annavolovodov]

i fear ctm is super close to wrecking lucille, cyril and rosalind. i cannot fathom a couple as devoted to their faith as cyril and lucille jumping to divorce so quickly without trying to work things out. i can't imagine the cyril of previous seasons giving up on lucille and chasing after someone else. even if he didn't want to leave poplar permanently, it would make way more sense for him to plan more trips to jamaica in response to lucille's request instead of giving up on his marriage.

and i know the whole thing is complicated because leonie wanted to leave but zephryn didn’t, and i don’t think zephryn should be forced to quit because leonie wanted out, but the way it's been handled has been awful. like ctm has kinda make cyril look like an asshole. like lucille went through a traumatic miscarriage that required medical intervention, had to deal with rising levels of racism at her work and was close to committing suicide. when she went back to jamaica he visited her a handful of times AT BEST instead of staying for any extended amount of time and supporting his wife while she was seriously ill. when he did eventually go on a lengthy trip to visit, her mum died unexpectedly and, again, he basically went back to london asap. when lucille asks for a divorce after all this (which tbh is understandable), he isn't willing to put in any effort to save his marriage and is more interested in how this will impact his social standing at the church. and when the divorce goes through, he already has a younger replacement ready for his next wife. truly a character assassination for the ages. they took a man who was genuinely sweet, decent and cared for others and have totally annihilated him. yet the prevailing attitude i've seen from the general audience is that LUCILLE is the selfish one for “leaving him behind” which is absolutely boiling my blood. you cannot tell me that if the shoe was on the other foot, if cyril had moved back to guyana permanently after experiencing a traumatic medical event, rising levels of racism and the community, and suffering from suicidal ideations and lucille had decided to stay in poplar, she wouldn’t have been CRUCIFIED for being insensitive, heartless and evil for abandoning her husband when he needed her most.

rosalind has only been on this show for two minutes! we've barely gotten to know her! yet we're shoving her into this disaster of a storyline!! my god, all three of these characters deserve better. hell, i didn’t even want lucille and cyril together, but what a slap in the face this has all become to the fans who were invested in their relationship.

idk. I like cyril, or at least i did before the writers decided to do this. but the show is call the MIDWIFE. it’s about the women, and I don’t like that the first Black main character of the show is essentially getting written out of her own story for the sake of her husband. that’s not even getting into the issue of the show having a Black mentally ill woman being replaced by a younger, white blonde woman.

[inbabylontheywept]

Is your url based on the song Babylon canon?? I recently found the song through a camp that I’m doing and it’s absolutely beautiful :)

Kinda. My URL is based Psalms 137, which the Babylon Canon is quoting. When I first chose this username, I wasn't planning on that account being for writing - I was using it to access the exmormon subreddit. I eventually burned out on them because they were so, so bitter, and I just... I wasn't. I was sad. I would describe myself as very religious, but not at all spiritual. I loved my friends, I loved the ward, I loved all the insane bullshit that happened in scouts, I loved that there were grown men who had busy lives and kids of their own that worked together to give me adventures in my childhood. I talk about the disasters because they're memorable, but these were not incompetent people. For every disaster there were 10 things that just went great.

I wasn't angry. The worst thing they did was hurt people near me, and when people you love do bad things to other people you love, it's just miserable. I wish they'd treated all of my people as good as they treated me. They loved the house, but not its crows.

Anyway, I chose that Psalm for a handful of reasons.

It's a homesick song. And after leaving, I felt homesick. I sat down by the river and I hung my harp on the poplars, and I wept when I remembered Zion.

I know this is incredibly dorky - but the only piece of media I ever found as a Mormon boy that took the religion seriously was Fallout New Vegas. They weren't a punchline in that game. They wrote Mormons that had deep regrets and complicated pasts, who had lived through and did terrible things, and I loved them for it. The most well executed example of this was a character named Joshua Graham, and he spits Pslams 137 at you in a key moment, and changed my brain chemistry. Watch this if you want to get a sense of the character. Or this. Either works.

I had a really, really, crazy seminary teacher. I've got two stories (story 1, story 2) about him, but frankly, I could write like, ten. He talked about Psalms 137 a lot. He had a very strong belief in God's willingness to inflict a terrible vengeance, but he also had like, beliefs on what it took for that vengeance to be invoked. One of the most interesting people I've met in my entire life, and deeply thus deeply entwined with my relationship with Mormonism.

Good question, and well asked! I've had some people just jump into thinking I'm a Zionist. I'm not.

[ephemeral-roses]

I wanted to ask about death in your story. Can the deathless gods die?

The reason I'm asking is because of Leuce. The one thing that's always kinda bothered me about her story is that - she was kidnapped by Haides the god of the dead and she died not long after and Haides made the white poplar in her honor... He is the king of the dead, wouldn't Leuce just still be in his domain? With Demeter, Aphrodite, Apollo they mourn their mortal lovers because they dies and they can't be reached in the underworld. But Haides is IN the underworld and the dead go to them.

For my own sanity I believe that when Leuce passed on she drank from the river Lethe and rejoined the dance of live through reincarnation (the Greeks did believe in reincarnation, I think it was part of the cult of Demeter and Persephone...or maybe it was Orphism) so she was no longer in Haides' domain yknow?

But yeah, can gods die in your story? If Leuce could die does it mean Peitho can die?

It's funny that you asked this, since just the other day I was rambling to my friend regarding if Peitho could die, considering her sister died!

I've only just started thinking about Leuce again, and I thought about the River Lethe being the source of her death as well— not her drinking it, I didn't think to much into it, just was trying to get an idea how Leuce could die without just showing up back in The Underworld again. Born from a river, only to go back to a river to die.

I don't think the gods can die, at least not by normal means. If they could, I feel like a lot of the gods would've been seen dying (I think there is an obscure myth about Perseus killing Dionysus, which I honestly like to think played out like that one clip from the Simpsons of Moe kicking out Barney from the bar, just for Barney to show up behind, with Perseus killing Dionysus just to show up behind him and go "PERSEUS! YOU KILLED A MAN! HOW COULD YOU?" Right in front of his own corpse). So Leuce doing the work herself by drinking from the river Lethe makes sense. Since her presence in The Underworld must've been an abduction just as Persephone's was, I can see her willing to do anything to leave.

Now here comes what I was talking to my friend about. Since Leuce has been able to die, the gods are unsure of the limit of their immortality and really don't want to test it out, and even worry about it a lot.

Hermes has a problem where he never knows when to slow down, be more gentle, or just stop altogether, and tends to hurt people accidentally, such as Crocus, whom he accidentally killed. He already has a reputation for killing others, like Argus. Tortoises don't survive when they lose their shells, so when baby Hermes took the shell off of the tortoise, he killed it without understanding it was dead. He only thought it was asleep just as his mother was in the cave when he escaped. It was only till later on when he realized what really happened.

As psychopomp of The Underworld, he knows very well what happened to Leuce and thinks that since Leuce and Peitho were both Oceanids, Oceanids have the ability to die. His has a big fear of accidently hurting Peitho because of this, afraid he'll go too far again. He feels like him hurting others is inevitable, from how often it has happened.

[qqueenofhades]

Your tags on the Dreamling/Good Omens cross over have me frothing at the mouth and I just need you to know that if you were to write that “Crowley stumbles into the New Inn” fic, I would be highly supportive of your life choices

The place isn't otherwise busy. It's edging into the lull period of late afternoon, when the day drinkers have shuffled out and the evening drinkers aren't quite off work, when there are only a few tourists taking snaps for the 'gram and the bartenders are out back for a cigarette break by the bins. Hob is sitting at his usual table, confronted with a pile of papers, a brewing catastrophe about the autumn schedule that for some reason he is expected to sort out, three passive-aggressive emails from Philippa about the prospect of him becoming Head of School next year (not on your fucking immortal life, mate) and other mundane academic crises, when the door flies open and a bloke at the end of his rope staggers in.

Thing is, Hob knows this particular bloke, at least by casual sight. He's been in from time to time, has a drink, stares at the wall, looks moody, and goes out again, either to a vintage Bentley filled with houseplants or just the streets of Poplar. Hob has made friendly conversation with him a time or two, knows that his name is Anthony Crowley and he lives in Soho, and he has a husband/boyfriend/life partner of some description who often drives him bonkers (join the club? Though the Stranger isn't even really that). But from the look on Anthony Crowley's face, as much as can be discerned from beneath his ever-present black sunglasses (not really a fashion item one otherwise needs in London), this is a five-alarm fire, and Hob gets up in some concern. "Hey. Mate. Everything -- ?"

Crowley stumbles past him without answering, which is probably only what Hob deserves. He reaches the bar, and since the bartenders are still on fag break and nobody else seems around to do it, Hob scuttles around the back. "Get you something?"

"Beer. Whiskey. Drink. I don't care." Anthony digs in his wallet and flings the first assortment of bills he can find at Hob, which is far more than it costs for a drink even in this terminally overpriced city. "Make it strong. Want to forget my own fucking name."

"Right. Got it." Hob only worked the bar when the New Inn was first opened and they were still hiring staff, but he hasn't forgotten. He selects a Scottish whiskey, neat, and pours it into the bottom of a tumbler, sliding it across the bar. Anthony throws it back without even seeming to breathe and shoves the glass in search of another, and Hob frowns. "Oy. Take it easy."

Crowley mutters something about that being the last thing he intends to do, thanks, and Hob's curiosity, the one thing that has often propelled him through the centuries, gets the better of him. "Not my place," he says cautiously. "But is everything, y'know? All right at home? Your, uh, partner, is he -- "

The effect of this utterance is not dissimilar to waving a red flag in front of a bull. Crowley rears back, looks for a moment like he's going to bolt, and is only prevented by Hob strategically shoving the refilled whisky glass into his hand. He tosses it down the hatch without turning a hair, wipes his mouth raggedly with the back of his hand, and with that, and no further prompting, launches into an absolutely nutty jeremiad. Something about Heaven and Hell, something about Aziraphale (that's his partner's name, yes) being a stubborn angelic idiot who's going to get himself killed, something about people named Gabriel (also an angel?) and Beelzebub (also a demon -- wait, demon?) running off together and he just thought -- he thought -- like a bloody fool he thought they could -- but no. Nooooooooo.

"Er," Hob says at the end, blinking hard. "Sorry, I don't quite follow."

"Course you don't." Crowley heaves a heavy sigh. "Even though you're not an ordinary human, I suppose it's just too...." He searches for a word, slurs a little on the end (maybe that whisky, of which he has just chugged the third glass, is having an effect on him after all), and enunciates with bitter, drunk precision. "Ineffable."

"Wait. What?"

"You're Robert Gadling." Crowley tips his head like an owl, trying to size Hob up in his progressively more lubricated state, and his dark glasses slide to the end of his nose, revealing lucent golden eyes beneath. "The special one. The immortal one. Right?"

Hob opens his mouth. Hob shuts his mouth. He realizes vaguely that it's quite possible Crowley has not, in fact, been talking in convoluted celestial metaphors the whole time. "How did you...?"

"I know your boyfriend," Crowley snaps. "Bit bloody full of himself too, isn't he? He and Az -- Azz-- Aziraphale probably sit around having secret societies for technology-hating, stuck-up, idiotic, holier-than-thou, utter total fucking prigs who can't use their words and constantly deny their feelings, eh?"

"My boyf -- " All at once, Hob feels as if a grand piano has been dropped on his head from a great height, like something out of an old cartoon. Yes, things with the Stranger are going well-if-you-squint, ever since their last meeting here: the idiot actually turned up, he apologized, he smiled, they had a long conversation, there were definite sparks. Considering the last, er, six hundred years or so of dismal precedent, that's a low bar, but still. "Afraid," Hob says at last, "he and I -- well, we aren't exactly like that, but -- "

Crowley keeps staring at him like he desperately wants Hob to sit him down and give him a clinic in how to get with the fussy, standoffish, excessively rules-bound immortal being he has been, evidently, also bloody pining after for Christ only knows how long. "Why not?"

"Ah." Good question. Hob isn't sure. "It's complicated."

"Complicated." Crowley stares moodily at the mirrored bar. "Sure. Yeah. Six thousand bloody years of complicated."

"Did you say six thousand -- ?"

"Yeah." Crowley holds out the glass again. "More."

Hob's mouth is still open. He's going to say something, but he doesn't know what. Six thousand years? God's wounds. He and the Stranger, at their piddly six hundred, are practically fucking married.

(He gets Anthony Crowley another drink, on the house. Can't help but feel that the poor bastard deserves it.)

[karin-gespenst]

Sister Monica Joan has done some extraordinary and out-of-left-field things over the years. The running away, the bartering for giant Christmas trees, going out to find her TV set (rightfully so) and watching it from outside the seamen's mission, taking in the dog and naming him "nothing"...

But that did not prepare me for her bringing home a recently deceased Poplar woman into the chapel in order to watch over her and have the ceremony prior to the funeral. There was the ceremony for baby April back in season 4 but that was someone else's idea.

This nun is really something else. Who would have thought that we would get more than a dozen seasons with her when she had pneumonia back in 1957? Maybe it's the refusal to go back to the Mother House, or Dr. T's exemplary care. Or it is living with so many young people that keeps her alert and interested.

over the holidays I had a few conversations about faith and the church with my mother and we agreed that the main part of the appeal of being in church is the community. We watched one CtM episode together, the one with the diabetic teen girl falling pregnant and Sister Mary Cynthia joyfully and humbly caring for people of four generations in the traveller's camp. That led to more conversations about getting old and who will be there to care and what do we expect in old age.

And all in all I believe Sister Monica Joan has a splendid arrangement in her old age. I could go without the religion but at least all the praying and singing keeps one occupied. Now because she is well cared for this particular old woman can go on caring for other people, and with a wide variety of people as well.