#p: occult fascination

[darkdemeter]

MY SUMMONING

⚤ College student!Wanda Maximoff x GN/Female/Male demon Werewolf!Reader 18+ SMUT, MDNI — (gn/f/m) reader with a dick — monster fucking — female oral receiving — long demon monster tongue can do many things — unprotected p in v sex — some profanity — *cough* laundry mutt!reader — I think that's it? ✎ 4.5k Reincarnated love can be a bitch when you're stuffed into an ancient pocket dimension for thousands of years because the peasants reviled and scorned you. How you've yearned to return to her, promising that one day you shall join her side again as her faithful, shadowed acolyte. Now awoken to reunite with your master on the night where her magic is most potent to release you from your prison, you're summoned by her... but not her. No matter. A lover is a lover, and your love is eternally devoted to her. Now to consummate it at long last.

↳ MASTERLIST | ↳ TAGLISTS ────────────────────────

No. There was no way this is happening. No way! This was all meant to be some stupid little joke…��

Alright, maybe dabbling in the assortments of witchcraft and old leather-bound tomes written in an ancient language wasn’t the best of pranks to pull, but it was Halloween and Wanda wanted to have her own fun tonight. 

She doesn’t have to read the room hard to know she was practically fifth wheeling through her Halloween night. Steve and Peggy, the all-dream couple on campus, while Bucky and Nat were in the beginning prime of their relationship. Yes, both were pretty popular and many people thought their couplings adorable — if not envious of the partner — but Wanda couldn’t help but feel like an outcast all night long. She’s been following them around, attending a party or two, getting up to crazy shenanigans that ought to land them all a night behind bars until bail.

No. Wanda Maximoff, one of the brightest students in her major’s class, likes to dabble in… odd things. Peggy and Nat both knew of this certain attraction of hers, but it had been a rather closely guarded secret until now.

Breaking into the old burnt down chapel off the corner of Main Street, surrounded by the old, white picket fence, hadn’t seemed like a half-bad idea. 

All fun and games until Wanda approached the podium where a dusty casing of leather sat, singed but untouched by the long forgotten fire. The yellowed, toughened skin of parchment paper crackled and rumpled with each turn over, her green eyes almost glowing with renewed fascination. She stopped at the book’s center when something caught her attention. Her eyes slip to widen a little at the sketching of a large, looming form of a wolf creature whose entire head bears only its skull, standing on its hind legs behind the regal figure of a loosely-clad robed woman. The image itself was intimately intoxicating to look upon. Something about it was pulling her to silently read over the daggered calligraphy. The woman’s illustrated body conveys what her drawn features lack; a postured body of contentment. Security. Lustful wanting. 

And the tall creature before her stood proudly. Protectively. Equally wanting and willing. 

The soft pad of her finger runs over the drawing, stroking the blackened detailing of the fur and skull face. Blooming deep in her abandoned, she feels that awakened need that begins to throb between her thighs and forces them to push together quickly, embarrassed with a warm glow in her cheeks. 

While Peggy had urged that she leave the book and its ominous being there alone, she had been outranked by the other three who egged her on.

How could she say no? What harm could come from an obvious prop of the occult? As if a place so holy could harbour anything dangerous. With a cheeky grin, eyes slowly moving back and forth between her friends and the page she read from, she began to read aloud the incantation. 

Before the very collective eyes of four witnesses, the surrounding candles sizzled with rekindled life, a singular flame dancing on each blackened wick before it would throb dimly in their warm arousement. A copied sensation Wanda felt herself able to relate to. 

“Wanda…” Peggy whimpers, unsure. Steve only pulled her closer to him but made no intent in stopping Wanda as she continued to recite the chant. 

The old chapel is awakened with a deadly, hollow breath, howling ominously in a deep and thunderous wind that travels through the marrow of bones and tenses the muscles. The air eagerly lapped and ravished at them, as if tasting them on its non-existent tongue. 

The rattle of the ancient, relic urns chattered on their shelves beneath a baritone of a rumble that became suspiciously familiar to a growl, that of a predatory beast. Wanda’s hair whipped around to almost blinding her vision but she feels like she’s incapable to stop, that whatever force pulled her in the first place has full control over her, that even if she wanted to — and she doesn’t — she couldn’t stop. 

Not until her words and voice enunciate the final lyric of whatever summoning spell she reads. 

“Come hither, loyal acolyte, silhouette and blackened, come back to your vengeful pedestal upon the earth — I beckon you from your voided prison, answer my summoning!”

Behind the knowledge of Wanda’s awareness, the visage of an animal skull formed in a smoky apparition finally pushed her friends to flee.

“Fuck this!” Bucky shouts, pulling Natasha with him until his grip is white knuckled around her wrist. Steve mimics the action and sentiment with Peggy. Each of their screams joined the territorial growls and roars as they ran to the cellar’s exit. 

“Wait—!” Wanda’s hand stretches out, gripping for her friends pleadingly only for the cellar door to boom loudly as the doors slam to a close. 

The air feels cold around her yet so thickly laced, it shrouded her in darkness despite the many candles lit around her. Behind her, tendrils of grappling mist form into spiraling columns that wrap and weave together into a crafting tower, silent with a voice she hears as a mere whisper. Your fur manifests in this realm with a bristled motion and your ears immediately twitch, perking up at each minute breath she utters in her shell-shocked state. 

Your master.

Oh, how long it has been since you last graced her beauty, her powerful aura and taken her into your enveloping hold. For too long she has been away from you. A tiny, coiled rasp akin to a curious, predatory purr emits from the chasm of your large chest. 

Wanda’s voice feels raw, stretched thinly by the grimoire’s spell and her hand delicately moves to pet and stroke it but a figment of lithe, cold clawed fingers beat her to it. 

A gasp hiccups in her throat as her head is tilted back slowly. Her eyes meet glowing balls of flame within the hollow frame of shallow eye sockets. A chiseled and grizzly face of a skull decorated with small cracks and a gaping maw revealing the serrated blades of teeth, moistened with an oily slick from a long, black limb of a tongue. 

No way…

You make the sound of that grinding, off-note purr again, louder to reach her ears. “Milenec…”

Odd as it was to feel an inkling of acknowledgement to the term. It sounds so… endearing. Like she’s heard it before but not in this lifetime. The aspect of a time before her existence here and now is brought into question immediately. 

“Y-you can talk…” she chokes out through a whispered breath, “What are you?”

“Milenec…  it  is  me.” You let her slip from your grasp where she stumbles back, the rise of her heels clobbering against the cellar flooring like loud cracks of thunder. Your body moves unlike any natural thing on this earth. It contorts, twisting and bending in places that shouldn’t. 

You body arcs and crosses over the podium with slinking ease, the wispy nature of your fur bellows in airy streams akin to the warp of fire and your long tail follows you as a trail of smoke; your body pushed and pulled like a magnetic charge between this realm and the next, there are forces at work that attempt to banish you and hold you grounded here. 

“Don’t  you  remember  me?” 

“I don’t understand,” Wanda mutters. With a tilt of your large head that furls your ears with a flop, you speak with a guttural enunciation. “You  freed  me,  Master. For  so  long  I’ve  waited,  trapped  in  the  void. But  you  kept  your  word. You  summoned  me.”

“I-I… that was… that was just a joke, I d-didn’t mean to—”

“But  you  did.” Low and unwavering is your tone, musing to and fro within the fabrication of vocalisation. 

You stalk closer until the bony bridge of your skull bows down to meet her at eye level. “And  now  we  can  finally  be  together…”

“Properly…  consummate  our  love.” 

What?

Wanda stumbles back, nearly caving in on her heel in her blind stun but the shadowy appendage of your tail wraps her and draws her in closer so that her breasts meet the glistening grotesque of your tongue. 

Long and expressive, it explores the exposure of her cleavage, tasting the warm dew of her skin and a thrumming growl rattles in your ribcage like bones being shaken in a hollow encasement. 

With a quivering breath, Wanda sighs, caught in the midst of this awakened desire and her need to get away. “I’m not—Ah… who you think I am…”

Pulling away and bumping the skinless mouth of your face against her cheek, you huff. The tattered, darkened rings hidden deep within the sockets of the skull move like muscled skin. A cursed deformity? 

An indication that you were once something more? 

The visceral shade of glowing amber shines ominously bright like a flame tempered angrily.

“A  reincarn…” The words speak as an echoing drawl that overlaps together. “But  my  Milenec  all  the  same…  my  mate.”

“M-mate?” Wanda stutters and you nod with a low purr. 

Had her dabbling in magic really cost her this time? For all her friend’s pleading to reconsider her less than tame rituals and practices, she truly opened the genie bottle on this one. And that genie happened to be a mystical entity hellbent on her being someone someone it knows. A reincarnate. 

Wanda cannot exactly place it within herself, but there is a certain cadence of allure in your words. Your profession that you and her are meant to be together. She’s felt so lonely as of late after her messy breakup with her ex. Feeling unwanted and pathetically isolated, believing that nobody else wanted her because of her taboo hobbies. 

But to think that this… creature wants her. She feels like it’s a sort of lust yearning to break free of herself. That this is right. That you’re meant to be. 

Your hands move to cradle her jaw, her visage cutely small compared to your hands. Her breath comes in light pants. “May  I…  kiss  you,  Milenec?” 

When Wanda had arrived back at her dorm room, she mostly expected it to be barren of her roommate after what occurred tonight. No doubt staying with Bucky. Her plump lips still reside with this vibrating tension after the kiss you shared. It was exotically powerful, submissively contained despite the ravenous hunger she could all but feel course through your materialised body. 

The grimoire sat on her dresser, a foreboding piece of occult just laid out in the open. You advised her to take it with her.

“It  was  yours.  Take  it.”

From the vessel of her sleeping form, you emerge as the figment moving through the shadows, a tainted mass like water in oil. The native, lesser darkness submits beneath your imposing will, threatened by you. As a wayward spirit now marking your haunting claim to this new territory, you drift around your surroundings under an inquisitive note to investigate. 

Your master is… different. She must be that of a reincarn. The loss of her memories — the loss of you — and in the matter that the world has changed so much since you were last summoned to this realm. Only the telltale sign of your presence leaves your shadow out in the open view, under the protruding light of the moon painted over the wall. 

Before you, your hand muses between the phases of existence, taking care to be gentle when your claw pokes and plucks at a button eye of a stuffed toy of a bear. You recall young village girls who made their comforting friends from old straw, ragged scraps of hemp and linen thread. Witches of the craft also used similar ingredients to create dolls, giving them onto you to then find and slaughter them. Ah, those were the days you were admired as a god. A deity of the dark and the shadows, where your name was uttered on the faint whisper of fear and gasped aloud in seek of repentance. 

Then your beloved summoned you, bound you in the sustained chains of her servanthood, and despite your nature to feel angered because of your entrapment; you admired the raw power she held. Together, you both would be unstoppable. In pledge of your divine protection and loyalty, she would bed you and settle your every carnal desire. She announced her soul yours to take in exchange that you would in turn serve as her faithful acolyte, the fonted source behind her increasing magic. 

A woman after your own heart. No other witch of her time had made such an offering so appealing. Usually they slew a few mortals as a sacrifice or the odd bassinet that cradled a babe surrounded by small, dead birds; all to ask your favour and to surrender a portion of your power to make them powerful.

You’re not sure why these women thought you’d have such need for innocent, infant souls. But you made their treachery pay for their disgusting insinuation. Nor did you ever condone the contracts over the young. A foul entity of the void but one with a consciousness. That was what your true followers came to understand. 

Brought back to the present you stand before the mirror of Wanda’s vanity. Small framed adornments hang by an invisible force that you decree is faulty magic, based on how easily it wanes upon touching it with the graze of a single clawed finger. Your mistress smiles in each one, some with the company of who you presume to be her followers, and others she is alone; in wait for your shadow to loom hazily in the next frame. 

This modern age still confounds you but you will learn it. And with it, you will have all knees bend before your master. You will finally sate one another as you both promised for an eternity. Beside the vanity sits a woven basket. You come completely from the cloak of your phantomhood when the smell hits you. A strong odor exudes from it and you curiously click the lid open. The scent wafts higher, more intense and your core awakens with arousement. You can smell the intensity of her on the used clothes. The nose hole of your skulled face inhales  deeply, sharply with a wheezing crackle. Your tongue laps at the soaking patch of her recent loins, groaning at the way hunger consumes you. 

Your ears rattle with a perked flicker at the piercing chord of Wanda’s softened whine. Your head swerves to peer over your shoulder, a penetrative gaze of two smoldering fires set upon her. How beautiful she looks, the blanket pooled to her stomach, revealing the sculpt of her form, a less than orderly top clinging to her loosely and barely concealing the spill of her breasts. 

As a misted cluster of wavering smoke, you saunter towards her until you stand over her at the side of the bed. Your head cranes on a tilted axis as you examine her closely. Her brows scrunched together, troubled and her body struggles and writhes pathetically, more so as she whines and moans breathlessly under the stir of her slumber. A low rumble vibrates in the chasm of your chest that it echoes deeply. 

Her hips jerk and she lets out another pitiful sound. She’s needy…

She  yearns  for  us…

She’s  ready…

It’s  now  our  time…

With one hand you cup her at the apex between her thighs and she shivers, hips jumping forward into your palming embrace. You growl with a low-edged timbre, desire taking hold of you. You feel the cool dampness soak her panties much like the ones in the basket and her smell… it takes every single sin of yours to remember not to ravish her outright lest you tear her open. 

She continues to move against the wide spread of your hand, rubbing herself on you. Her muscles go rigged with each needy roll of her hips and her throat constricts around her mumbled phrases and wanting sounds. 

She  needs  us…

You intrude two long fingers beneath the thin fabric of her panties, your thumb having sought out her clit. You run along her folds with tantilising motion, teasing. Your master gives a low, sulky moan in turn. Her legs spread further apart to welcome you, accommodate your invading advancements and her breath quickens that her breasts become strained against her top. How you’ll tear it off her in due time. Nothing will keep you apart an longer, nothing else shall hinder you from bearing witness to her naked body pinned beneath you or when she takes her place above you; to spear herself on the throne that is your cock. She will come to remember her manners, her power and then… nothing will remain in your path. You two shall be unstoppable. 

You push the two fingering appendages past her moist folds and she gasps curtly, her spine arching beautifully from the mattress. Finally, she’s embracing that which is long overdue. Your thumb rolls her cli in slowly drawn circles, pressing with a touch of firmness to let her know your toying is an act to please. 

Her name parts through her agape lips and her dark lashes beat with a sleepy flutter, unaware completely to what transpires. 

“Milenec…” you purr. The darkened dart of your tongue slides over the maw of your bony teeth, wishful to savour her taste. You lower yourself at her side, your other hand moves up, caressing the temple of her body until it reaches the nape of her neck. Your jaw cracks and pops, a wiry whisper of breath lashes through the hollow of your throat and your tongue extends further from your mouth. Still fingering her velvety insides until she’s coating you with her arousal, her clit thrumming with a lively pulse, your tongue becomes integrated into the pleasurable mix. 

You grunt and moan with a thousand resounding echoes bouncing back and forth between the walls. You taste the sweetened dew of her skin, its slight tang of salty residue. It slides over the slim plane of her stomach, caressing the creased threshold of her legs right near her navel and then upwards. The damned fabric offends you in your aroused exploration. Your tongue slips beneath its material hem and travels between her breasts, rippling for a moment before tearing the top down its middle. Her nipples become stiff, erected by the sudden chill that riddles her skin with goosebumps. 

Her chorus of moans spurs you on. The inky tendril of your tongue glides over each breast, playful with both nipples until you leave a shiny gloss behind. It has her mewing in a way that makes your cock throb and stand between your legs. The thicker portion of your tongue slides and fondles over the curve of her breasts, its extension moving back down her body following the natural weight of her belly until your tongue prods at her clit. It’s cold to her, she lets out a shivered sigh and a softened mewl of your name. 

Along with your fingers, your tongue divides the lips of her slickened pussy apart, becoming a third instrument that strokes her from within. Her walls are hot around you and it clouds your mind with a clouded lust, her snug walls that are flushed with a velvety feel that’s moistened; a precious cove where she beckons your entreating defilement. You groan with a slurping lap in indulgence to her taste finally on your tongue. Sweetened like a honeyed wine, the taste of a feverish delight. Greedily, you sink your tongue further inside of her. 

She arches her back further and your hand supports her at the backend of her skull as she cries out your name, her breath panting and concealing that of a blissful scream. Her eyes open to the dimly lit world around her, the lamplight having flickered in warning that its lighting will expire soon the moment you laid your hands on her. Terrorised by a series of gasps and hiccuping moans, her hands fist and clench at the chilly spires of your misty fur, just thick enough to grab onto but the fainter portions slip through her hold. 

“Y–Y/n… ah—ahh! My acolyte…”

You give a mused whine at the teetering edge of her voice, a bended inflection as she now balances horribly on the verge of her own orgasm; a heavenly relief. “Right there… please, r–right there!”

Your thumb becomes aggressive on her clit and you pull her to sit up slightly. The widened base of your head forces her legs to remain open no matter how much she clenches them against you, she pulls at the mane of fur around your neck as she begs you. 

With a few more strokes of your fingers and tongue, she cums. Her body trembles violently as she’s taken by the white, hot flush that blinds her for a moment and her juices reward you; allowing you to devour it with gulping eagerness. As a last effort, your fingers work to stretch her walls out and she winces before you withdraw both appendages. 

Her chest extends with each large breath and her eyes drown with a deepened pool of lust, the sparkle of scarlet dancing within them. Her power grows with digesting effort through each powerful exchange of your sexual endeavors. Your tongue retracts slightly back down into the unknown and pitless depths of your gullet and you growl deeply. 

Wanda’s hands become fixed at your shoulders and pull at you, inviting you. With a serpentine movement, your tongue moves slowly over the mound of her clit, eliciting a sharpened gasp from Wanda. Further, it moves up her body again, wrapping as a band around her breasts and squeezing her; a mouse caught in your trap. The thinner flare of your tongue is a wonderful muscle all its own when it balances merely of its own accord before her lips, like a snake risen up for the strike. 

Just from the burning amber of your eyes she understands you want her to taste herself. Her plump lips open weakly and you push the inky, slick covered tip into her mouth. Her tongue moves forward and flicks at the slitted divide of your forked muscle; and your body ripples with an unworldly, loud hum. She will come to understand such an area is akin to the sensitive tip to your weeping cockhead.

Your cock twitches and you move until your widened gate sits between her legs. Her soft, delicate thighs are forced to rest against the strong, muscled limbs of your own, just barely meeting at level with your hips and where her awaiting cunt lines up with your cock. 

You move your tongue as a secondary thrusting muscle. Wnda moans a muffled song around it, her own tongue stroking the underbelly of the blackened length and your hips pitch forward with an eager roll. Your tip notches between the capture of her swollen pissy lips and you push forward.

Her body immediately tenses up and your hands hold tight to her wrists, ensuring her grip that claws at your remains there. You’ve never been opposed to pain mixing with pleasure. 

The pronunciation of your name vibrates through your tongue and you growl. Her walls constrict around you with that hot flushness, fluttering as she eases her body to relax. Your size is one she hasn’t experienced before, not even her ex could compare. You pick up your thrust promptly, shoving your cock in and out, in and out. When you withdraw your tongue, the coiled muscle tightening around her ribcage with each thrust you force to penetrate her deeper, she lets out a sighing moan. Her lashes beat fast and her eyes roll back, lulled by the backward crane of her head that falls back against the pillow. 

“Y-yeah, there, right there…”

“Mmm—mhph, so deep!”

How you’ve waited so long to hear her pleasure all to yourself. It’s intoxicating to be praised by your master and your pace quickens. Your hips snap faster and harder with a harshened force that rocks the bed back and forth with a grinding squeak, the headboard splintering a straight line into the wall from the pounding brunt. 

“Shit, shit— I’m gonna—ah!”

You can hear her deep within the recess of her soul. Her reincarn a physical vessel that harbours your first and only love. Your beloved mate. She sings out to you; summoning you. 

You see her within the blind of a memory, seeing the woman beneath you as you do your master. 

You see two different branches of her soul. 

And the thought that your master in this life has faced so much judgment, that her previous lover left her — not that he would have been around much longer if he’d been in the picture still. 

A new quarry to hunt once your consummation was complete. A prize to bring back to your mate. Her first sacrificial offering you’d present to appease her.

Her legs lock around your sturdy hips to drag you further inside of her, kissing the delicate plush of her cervix that has her keening, her lips parted with deep and loud moans that would disturb the neighbouring dorms for sure. 

“Milenec…,” you rattle with a purring growl, “My  Milenec…  release,  let  go.”

For a second time, Wanda bends to the bliss of her euphoria. Cumming around your cock, her walls hug you tightly and her body trembles again with a feverish tingle. It feels like her insides are boiling but her skin is plagued by the wave of coldness. 

Your ears and back with a sharp howl as your knot swells before erupting with the spurting ropes of your release, listening to the rhythmic and moistened glide of where your bodies lock together now. It’s a sound you want to hear for eternity. 

Your tongue loosens around her bust and slinks back down into your gullet, concealing its impressive length for another time. 

“I feel…” Her words come out as a faded exhale. She’s unable to find the words as she stares up at you, a hand caressing the bony curve of your jaw that pops back into place after hanging so low. 

“Whole.”

No longer will your darling master feel the shaded cloak of neglect and disregard. She will feel what it means to truly be loved. Desired. Worshipped. As your mate she falls under your protection and you will guard her fiercely. You will protect the witch who summoned you all those years ago and you shall forever pledge your service to the witch before you now.

She is one and the same. A lover is a lover even through ages past. Nothing will change the bargain you forged long ago. Not the eyes that spear her to the pyre that burned her in ages old, nor the imprisonment of the void, or even the grades she appears desperate to achieve — though you believe she should turn her studies to that of the grimoire: her true potential.

THANKS FOR READING!

✎ no note from the author

[cuubism]

bookstore cryptid dream part 11 -- the kidnapping installment

--

“Whatever happened to that poetry book?” Hob asks one day, sitting with Dream in the living room. He’s not sure why it comes to him.

Dream looks up from his book on the history of chocolate, tilting his head in question.

“The cursed one,” Hob elaborates.

“Ah.” Dream closes his book, looking very serious now. “I locked it away, somewhere safe, suitable for books such as that.”

“Didn’t destroy it?”

“Releasing such magic can sometimes have… unintended consequences.” He shakes his head, as if remembering prior such instances. “Best to simply contain it.”

“How many books like that are out there?” Hob asks curiously. Every day, he learns some new thing about the world from Dream. And how dangerous some books can, apparently, be.

“There are a selection. They are rare. For most books, their power lies in the words themselves. No need for occult spells.”

“Huh.” Hob supposes that makes sense. “But you don’t lock those ones away?”

Dream shakes his head. “No. They can be dangerous, though.”

Hob is still wildly curious about these actually magic books. Not that he’d particularly enjoyed getting cursed, but still, he wonders if any such thing will ever cross his path again. He supposes he should hope not.

It is fascinating, though.

--

Dream is missing.

It isn’t like last time, when The Library itself had been gone. That had freaked Hob the fuck out at the time, but now, he knows what it meant — that Dream had felt The Library itself was under threat, and had locked it for safekeeping.

Now, The Library is still there. The door creaks open, unlocked, as Hob pushes on it, letting him into the tiny foyer and first winding halls of stacks. The selection changes periodically — today’s categories include HOPE & ITS DISCONTENTS, “Libraries” (rather meta, Hob thinks), Books of Emptiness (Hob takes one off the shelf out of curiosity and finds it, indeed, empty), and S P E L L S, most of which seem to be dictionaries, actually? Strange. But then, that is The Library.

This is the third day of Hob coming back to The Library in the hopes of finding Dream, and having those hopes dashed. Hope and its discontents, indeed.

Everything is in its place. But Dream is nowhere to be found. He hasn’t been coming home. His books are still on the nightstand, his cardigan forgotten on a chair in the cafe. His study is the same, too, cluttered with notes and journals, abandoned cups of coffee on desks and side tables.

It hurts Hob’s heart to look at, even more than finding The Library gone. The place feels empty without Dream there. As soon as Hob steps in the front door, he can tell Dream hasn’t returned, simply for how grey everything feels.

He hopes nothing’s happened, that Dream was just called away on some urgent errand in the middle of the day, when Hob was busy, and it’s taking him longer than expected to resolve it. Dream is criminally bad at using his phone, to the extent that Hob sometimes isn’t convinced he owns one, and might just have forgotten texting is something he can do. They’ll have to have a talk about that, because he’s giving Hob a heart attack, but still it’s the best case scenario.

But it’s the worst case scenario that’s swirling in Hob’s head.

Dream has disgruntled customers at times. He’d gotten into a fistfight with one, back when they’d first met. What if someone took their ire even further? Hell, what if the owner of that cursed poetry book came back for it?

Hob sighs, slumping into Dream’s desk chair. Even if something terrible has happened, he hasn’t the first clue how to go about finding Dream. He’s kept an eye out, while exploring The Library, for any indication of what could have happened, but to no avail. He’s well and truly starting to panic. The Library has doors everywhere. Dream could be anywhere.

His eyes land on Dream’s journals, still laid open on the desk. Normally Hob doesn’t pry into Dream’s notes. But these are dire circumstances. Hob’s going to lose it if he doesn’t do something.

He picks up the top notebook and reads the entry it’s open to:

— MG thought destroyed ack. lost 1916? JC report OAM magic picked up Sussex summoning what??

Hob groans. “Dream, could your notes be any more fucking unintelligible?” Apparently, his mind works too fast to write in full words, instead of just shorthand.

He flips through a few more pages of notes, skimming them, but not getting much. Then a few pages in, he finds a letter tucked into the journal. In someone else’s handwriting, it reads:

Dream—

You never use your goddamn fucking phone so here’s a note. You know I wouldn’t have to be so obscure if we could just use encrypted texts? Fucking luddite. Anyway. I found the damn thing. R.B. + Co. Pretty sure we’d know if they succeeded in using it so we still have time. I think I have a way in. If I retrieve can you neutralize it? AND FUCKING CALL ME WE’RE SHORT ON TIME!

—JC

In case you forgot how phones work: 020 9281 5555

Well, that’s something. The same JC from the notes? What exactly are the two of them trying to neutralize?

Hob has no idea. But at least he has a clue now.

--

Hob paces back and forth in his living room as he calls the number for “JC”, absolutely no idea who he’s going to get on the other end. But hopefully, they might know what’s happened to Dream.

“Hello?” A gruff woman’s voice answers the line.

“Hi, I’m looking for…” he doesn’t actually know her name. “…J?”

“What?”

“Look, I’m looking for Dream,” Hob says in a rush. Might as well lay it all out. “I’m his boyfriend. He’s been missing for three days.” Maybe “missing” is overstating it. But maybe it’s understating it. “I found your phone number in his notes and wanted to know if you’d seen him.”

“Likely story, pal,” she says with a scoff. “Dream keeps his boyfriend out of all the occult shit. And good thing, too. I wish I could keep myself out of it. What do you really want with him?”

It’s sort of gratifying that other people in Dream’s circle are also protective of his secrets, even if it’s frustrating in the moment. But, ‘keeps him out of the occult shit’? Exactly how much ‘occult shit’ is Dream dealing with on a regular basis?

“Exactly what I said,” Hob says. “He doesn’t usually disappear like this. His notes said you two were looking for something? Something dangerous?” Did Dream go after it? Is that what happened?

“MOTHERFUCKER!” she screams, and Hob pulls the phone from his ear with a wince. “I am going to KILL HIM!”

“Don’t hang up!” Hob yells before she can do just that. “Will you come meet me? I’ll give you my own address, if it helps. You know where The Library is?”

“The Library’s got multiple doors, mate,” she says, sounding marginally calmer now.

Right. Fuck. He gives her the actual street name this time, and she says—

“Be there in a mo’. Your idiot boyfriend’s got himself in a right mess I expect. Because he’s a fucking idiot.”

Just as Hob feared, then. “Tell me about it when you get here,” he says, and then, when she’s hung up, goes to gather Dream’s journals.

--

A smart, tough-looking woman greets him at the door to the cafe, which Hob’s closed for the time being, an hour or so later. “Johanna Constantine,” she says, sticking out a hand, which Hob shakes. “So you really are the boyfriend. Huh. Hob, right?”

“Yeah.” Hob isn’t sure whether to be touched or alarmed that Dream talks about him with his random occult acquaintances.

“He has a photo of you two on his phone,” Johanna explains. “Not that he uses it, the rat bastard. God I’m going to murder him when I find him.”

“Let’s sit down,” Hob suggests. He has coffee ready, more for something to do to still his restless hands while waiting than anything.

“Right,” Johanna says, as she sits down at a table. She gratefully takes the coffee he offers. “So, I’m choosing to trust you. If you fuck me over we will have a serious problem. Okay?”

Hob raises his hands in surrender. “I literally just want to find Dream. I’m worried sick about him.”

Johanna takes a long sip of her coffee. “Right. So. My business is managing occult stuff, yeah? Exorcisms and the like. Stopping it before it hurts anyone. I’ve been trying to track down this particular book. Spell book. Dangerous stuff. What it can do—doesn’t matter. It was thought lost for ages, or destroyed—wouldn’t that have been great. But Dream and I both wanted to get it off the streets, once it popped up again. There’s no good hands for that book to be in.”

“You two friends?” Hob asks.

“Eh,” says Johanna, “sorta. Mostly work friends, I guess. I first got Dream’s help with a spell book a few years back. He’s the best one to go to for that sort of thing, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Yeah,” Hob agrees, mulling over this whole side of Dream’s business he didn’t know about. It makes sense, though. Dream, the expert on all books. Even this book, whatever it is, must ultimately belong to The Library.

“And now he’s gone after this book,” Hob guesses. “By himself.”

“I told him I would retrieve it,” Johanna says, gritting her teeth. “All I wanted was his help locking the thing away after. But no. Had to do it all himself.” She sighs.

“It must have really concerned him,” Hob says.

“It concerned me!” Johanna exclaims. “All the more reason not to go alone! Idiot.” It’s said with fondness, though.

“So, what are we going to do?” Hob asks.

“We?” says Johanna, raising an eyebrow.

“Listen, I don’t care about the book—”

“You should,” Johanna says seriously.

“—Well, I don’t. But I do care about Dream. If he’s in trouble, then I’m not just going to sit here.”

Johanna looks at him appraisingly, then nods, satisfied. “Good,” she says. “I know who has the Grimoire, so I know where he’ll most likely have gone. How good are you with a cricket bat?”

“How about a knife?” Hob says.

She startles. “Christ. Alright, then. I won’t ask, but good.”

“Just tell me where to go, and I’ll be there,” Hob says seriously, and for the first time, she gives him a smile.

“I’ve been hoping for an excuse to give Roderick Burgess a good thrashing. Guy’s a prick. Alright, Dream’s boyfriend—let’s go get the stupid librarian."

--

It’s decided Hob should be the initial decoy because, according to Johanna, “people always think I mean trouble, and you have this sort of wholesome coffee shop owner thing going on. Knife skills aside.”

Hob’s not sure if it’s a compliment or not.

“He’ll definitely think he can scam you,” Johanna adds. That one’s definitely not a compliment.

So Hob goes to an event Roderick Burgess is hosting, showing off all his antiques. He brings with him an old book from The Library, ostensibly to “sell”. Forgive me, Dream, he thinks, as he pulls Magicks of the World off the shelf. Promise I won’t let him keep it.

It’ll get him in, he hopes. It’ll get Roderick Burgess’s attention, at least enough to let Johanna slip past. The book is proper old, nearly falling apart, and while it may not be actually magic, it at least is about magic. He hopes it’s enough.

“Remember,” Johanna says, as they’re stepping up to the door, “just keep his attention. I’ll search the house to see if I can find Dream, or the Grimoire.”

“You really think he’s keeping Dream hostage in this house?” Hob asks incredulously.

Johanna snorts. “If he thinks Dream can help him decode the thing? Yeah, absolutely. I told you. Guy’s a selfish prick.”

That seemed to be putting it lightly.

Hob isn’t sure he’ll be content with being the distraction if he finds out Roderick actually has Dream captive. But he calms himself for the time being.

--

Hob absolutely hates Roderick Burgess the second he lays eyes on him.

He’s managed to corner Burgess in the sitting room of the old manor house. His book in one hand, drink in the other. The man is fucking seedy. Hob could tell immediately, even if Burgess pretended at gentility.

Hob’s already decided that Roderick does have Dream locked in a room somewhere. Call it instinct.

Roderick gives Magicks of the World a look of cool disinterest as Hob hands it to him, but it shifts to grudging surprise. “This is actually old,” he says. “Unlike the fake crap people keep trying to pawn off on me.”

“I was told you had a discerning eye,” Hob says with false admiration. “1612. Genuine article.”

“Hm. This is of some interest,” says Roderick. “Come to my office.”

Hob follows him, hoping Johanna is having some success finding Dream.

Roderick’s office is much neater than Dream’s study. it feels like the affected study of someone trying to come acrossas a studious gentleman. Hob hates it.

And there on the desk is a thick, leather-bound volume that Hob knows instantly is the book Dream and Johanna have been looking for. He isn’t sure exactly how he knows. He isn’t at all magical. But he just knows. He can feel the eerie energy of the thing.

“I’ll give you six hundred pounds for it,” Roderick says, laying Magicks on the desk.

Hob startles. That’s actually a lot of money for a single book. Sorry, Dream, he thinks.

“Where did you get it?” Roderick asks.

“Old bookshop,” Hob says. “Don’t think they knew what they had.”

“They never do,” Roderick muses.

He hands Hob six hundred pounds, cash. Hob takes it, dumbfounded.

“Tell me,” he says, pretending hesitance. “I only know how to tell the age. How to know if it’s genuine. The magic stuff—that’s beyond me. How do you make sense of it?”

“I have my sources,” says Roderick. He seems to delight in being enigmatic. “There are… certain experts. If one knows where to look.”

Certain experts. Hob grits his teeth. “You willing to share a name? I have a few books myself I’d love to get better appraised.”

“I’m keeping that to myself for now. Trade secrets, you know.” He smiles to himself, meanly. “Valuable sources, those, in this business.”

Hob decides two things. One: he can definitely take down an old man. Two: he doesn’t care if he goes to prison.

He picks up a heavy statue from the desk and, before Roderick can react, cracks him across the head with it.

Roderick drops like a stone, and Hob snatches up both Magicks and the Grimoire, and flees.

Shit. That might have been ill-advised. What if Dream isn’t in the house, and Hob just caused permanent brain damage to the one person who might know where he is? Shit.

Nothing for it now. He hurries through the halls, books under his arm. He turns a corner, then another, and where the bloody hell is he? Then—

He nearly runs directly into Johanna and Dream.

Hob thrusts the books at Johanna, and takes Dream in his arms instead, pulling him into a tight hug. Dream hugs him back, pressing his face into Hob’s neck with a soft little sound.

He looks rough. His hair is a disaster—more than usual—and he’s wearing the same clothes Hob vaguely remembers him putting on that morning several days ago, before he disappeared.

“Hey,” Hob whispers, “I was really worried about you.”

“‘m sorry,” Dream murmurs, clutching at him.

“This was extremely fucking stupid, Dream,” Johanna says, in a tone that suggests she’s said so already. There’s worry there too, though.

“Yes, point taken,” Dream says.

“I love you,” Hob murmurs against his cheek, before pulling away to look at him properly.

There’s a bruise on Dream’s cheek that makes Hob very glad he smacked Roderick upside the head with a statue. More than that, he looks a bit… haunted. Hob will have to get more details later. Right now, they need to get out of here.

“Where the fuck is Roderick?” Johanna demands.

“I might have killed him,” Hob says, not feeling very bad about it. “Not totally sure.”

“No loss,” says Johanna, holding the books tightly.

Hob keeps Dream close. Dream is looking at him in wonder. Like Hob is the last possible thing he had expected to see. Freedom itself.

Hob kisses his forehead. And then they get the fuck out of there.

--

“You should really rest, Dream,” Hob says.

Dream is currently doing something to the Grimoire. Binding the pages. He doesn’t seem willing to let it go until he’s made the thing safe.

He sighs. “In a moment.”

“Dream…”

Dream finally puts the book away in a drawer in his desk, kneels before the desk, and draws some complicated symbol on the wood. Perhaps he had done the same with the poetry book, Hob thinks.

Though Hob suspects that the Grimoire is significantly more dangerous.

Finally Dream stands. He seems… a bit listless, now, having finished with the book. Even in the soft lighting of the Library study, the awful bruise on his face is stark, a deep plum mark. He looks at Hob, hands twisting together, expression vulnerable.

Hob’s heart hurts. He hopes he did kill Roderick. But now, he holds out his hands to Dream.

Dream steps over to him, and Hob brings him into an embrace. Holds him tight. Whatever determination had kept Dream going thus far seems to evaporate, then, and he sags against Hob, trembling slightly.

“Let’s go home, yeah?” Hob murmurs against his hair.

“Yes,” Dream sighs.

He locks up the study, which Hob has never seen him do before, and then, once they’re downstairs, locks The Library’s front door as well. He leaves a sign that says, “Closed for the time being.”

Hob leads him across the street, back upstairs to his flat above the cafe, and steers him to the bathroom. He perches him on the edge of the tub as he turns on the tap and lets the hot water fill up.

Dream is still shivering a little. The poor thing is probably desperate for a bath, not to mention food, Christ.

“What did he want with you?” Hob asks, helping Dream out of his jumper. Dream winces as he pulls it off over his head, and Hob grits his teeth. “Did he hurt you?”

“He had been trying to use the Grimoire,” Dream says, as Hob kneels to help him with his slacks. “But there was a symbol he could not decode. My… approach… to try to take the book back was… not as clever as I had hoped, and I was intercepted. He demanded I translate it. When I refused…” he trails off. He’s naked now, and Hob can see a dark bruise stretching up his thigh, another working its way up his back and over his shoulder. “Well, he did not take well to being told ‘no.’”

“Bastard,” Hob swears, and Dream’s lips quirk up.

“Quite.”

Hob kisses the bruise on Dream’s thigh—if only that would do more to actually heal it—and Dream smiles faintly.

“What’s that book do anyway?” Hob asks.

“It’s meant to summon Death,” says Dream, and Hob feels a chill, like the universe itself is protesting that possibility. “I do not think it has ever been successfully used. But the magic is certainly potent enough.”

“Good thing you got it back, then,” says Hob. He helps Dream up, then supports him as he steps into the tub, sinking down into the warm water with a sigh.

Hob strips off his own clothes and follows him, slipping behind Dream and pulling him back to his chest. Dream leans his head against Hob’s shoulder.

“That was all very silly, you know,” Hob says against his cheek, arms wrapped around Dream’s middle. “I was very worried about you.”

“I am sorry,” murmurs Dream. “It was… poorly thought out.”

“Just a bit.”

“But,” says Dream, a hint of wonder in his voice, “you came to rescue me.”

Hob kisses his cheek. “Of course.”

“Hob…” starts Dream. “How may I say this… you are not exactly a rough type I would expect to be performing heists.”

“Hey, you don’t know everything about me,” Hob says indignantly. “Second, you’re a librarian, and you tried to break into the man’s damn house first. Thirdly—”

“And yet,” Dream interrupts, “you still came to help me. Roderick Burgess is a dangerous man. That was ill-advised.”

“Didn’t seem very dangerous when I smacked him in the head.”

“I am saying I appreciate it,” says Dream, with a little chuckle. “All the more so for the danger you put yourself in.”

“You’re my boyfriend,” Hob says. “I love you. Of course I came after you. Don’t be silly.”

He wishes he had gotten there sooner. He chokes up, thinking of Dream stuck in some room, uncertain of any rescue. He tucks his face into Dream’s shoulder, tears beading along his lashes. “Poor darling.”

Dream reaches up and strokes his hair. “I’d be curious to hear about your criminal past sometime,” he murmurs, which has Hob chuckling. “Did you really kill Roderick Burgess?”

“Dunno,” says Hob. “Hope so.”

“My boyfriend is more dangerous than I thought,” Dream observes, lips tugging up. He sounds quite satisfied about it, and Hob kisses the corner of his lips.

“If he comes back I’ll kill him again,” he says.

Dream shivers, leaning more heavily against him. “You’ve unlocked the two keys to my heart,” he whispers, and it’s only partly joking.

“Oh yeah?” Hob says, lips still brushing his cheek. “Violence committed on your behalf is one?”

Dream nods.

“What’s the other, then?”

Dream’s lips twitch. “Scones.”

“I’ll have to fulfill that one in a few minutes then, too,” Hob says, grinning.

“So you shall.”

“Would it make you doubly horny if I killed somebody with a scone?” Hob asks. “Or—?”

Dream turns around in his lap to kiss him, wrapping his hands around the back of Hob’s neck. Hob rocks back with the force of the kiss, leaning back against the tub. “Yes,” Dream declares, and gives Hob another peck on the lips.

“I’ll find someone to kill,” Hob promises. “You have anyone in mind?”

Dream giggles. Joy looks good on him, after everything. He tucks his nose in against Hob’s shoulder again, and Hob holds him close, runs a hand up and down over his back, careful of the bruises.

“I will think of something,” Dream promises.

Hob kisses his temple, and resolves to keep a closer eye on his boyfriend’s supernatural activities in the future.

And to buy Johanna Constantine a drink some time, too.

[thehorrorvacui]

“ I stayed up all night playing poker with tarot cards. I got a full house and four people died. ” ― Steven Wright

Day by day, Willow’s C a b i n e t o f C u r i o s i t i e s draws in wanderers, those fascinated by the obscure and eerie and those in search of answers. Captivated by the eerie atmosphere that fills the petite cabinet, they enter a confined, dust-filled room brimming with secrets. Here, Willow houses an eerie collection of occult relics, rumored to be imbued with arcane magic, all resembling a Vanitas still life. Compelled by the desire for answers, many surrender to the prophecies of this grim seraphim. However, not everyone who has cards dealt to them is prepared for the truth they reveal. Willow is well aware that her gift is both a blessing and a curse and when the Death card appears, it signifies a sealed and inevitable fate from which her customers cannot escape. Those who have experienced her services whisper about the accuracy of her predictions, while those who fear her dark gift speak of a cold touch and a hint of decay that befalls them the moment they meet her eyes.

ooc: semi-selective, minors dni, mutuals only ⋙ currently o p e n for plotting ⋘

[carionto]

The Ocean's Call

Life on Earth is... hectic these days. Everyone is so busy with all these projects and plans and probabilities and postulations, it's honestly quite bothersome for people like Cintra Valkeim, who just wants to immerse herself in nature. Particularly - the sea!

Ever since graduating from high school, only a few days after the Earth and Humanity "reappeared" in real space and were greeted back by the rest of the Galaxy, she's felt this calling of the deep unknown. Well, not all that unknown these days, practically every millimeter of the ocean floor had been mapped, and with all the vessels and underwater projects to keep the tectonic plates from shattering completely it was as busy below as above, but Cintra still felt like there was something missing, something that we "should" know, but don't.

She chose nautical engineering as her major with a minor in oceanography, as well as extra classes in classic literature when she enrolled at the Old Delhi Institute of Natural Science and Engineering. At first she did well at all her subjects, but only a few months in and she became obsessed over ancient texts, and barely left the library. As her attendance and grades fell and they were about to call her in, she disappeared.

When the university staff obtained the required permissions, they investigated her dorm room and found it filled with printed out copies of hundreds of books, pamphlets, zines, and every other form of text materials surrounding the occult, fantasy stories about the ocean and sea creatures, papers by discredited academics rambling on about ancient civilizations and sunken tomb worlds, and plenty of obscure works even the librarians were surprised they had in their archives.

There was one notebook, however, which detailed a plan to dive into one of the opened up fissures in the Pacific ocean that goes down to the mantle, and a schematic for a complex suit that could, in theory, withstand such enormous pressure using a miniature gravity field generator to create a sort of field of intense gravity right around it as a "shield" of sorts to hold back the water. Fascinating idea in its own right. Some test notes indicated she felt confident about it. And the last entry simply said "They are calling me more and more every day. I am ready now. I must go."

_________________________

Deep below, far below where the tiny nothings ever dare to go, where they can't go, one nothing stands out.

They are meant to be ignored, yet this nothing insists on being seen. On becoming a "something".

The eye is shut, but it can feel the nothing is calling out. It is dying.

Yet it pleads not for life. Rare, but not new. The nothing becoming a dead nothing is irrelevant to the One Who Observes All.

The nothing struggles. A feisty one. It conveys all it knows to a being that knows beyond what nothings can ever know.

Stop.

It holds a fragment of something new. What did it say?

... expired

Death and consequences are irrelevant where knowledge is concerned.

Rise once more. S P E A K !

"You Old Ones are resting, but we saw. We went where a New One was. It saw us. You went with us in your dreams, you saw it too. We took you there and back, but you were asleep. We can take you there again. You can find the New One. You can kill it! Please! Before it finds us..."

... expired again

The one who stared?

Such a brief yet infinite meeting. "New One" the nothing said. No. It is not kin.

Yet to imprint itself onto these nothings so deeply into their minds. This nothing found the marker in its brain.

Curious.

Yes.

This nothing shall become a something.

Rise once more. L E A R N !

[wildflower-otome]

[Translation] 9 R.I.P. - Yukimaro Heavenly Ending After Story

Source: 9 R.I.P. Stella Set Special Bonus Booklet Note: Major Spoilers for Yukimaro's Heavenly End below.

Only Your Spirit - Yukimaro Heavenly End After Story

Since I had become a spirit only for my mistress’ sake, the days and months had gone by—.

Today I was again waiting by the gates for my mistress to finish school.

.....Mistress, you sure are late today. Normally you would have come out by now. It can’t be that you’ve been attacked by a ghost—!

Just as I was about to break into a run, Lady Sayaka emerged from the gates-

‘Yukimaro-san! I’m so glad you were here after all.’

‘Oh, Lady Sayaka. Has something happened?’

‘Misa asked me to give you a message. The committee she’s in charge of is having a meeting, so she’ll be a little late.’

‘What, so that’s all it was. .....I’m so relieved it wasn’t a ghost.’

‘Hm? Did you say “a ghost” just now??’

—Oops. Just as I would expect of an occult enthusiast like Lady Sayaka. What sharp instincts she had, not even the slightest bit of information made it past her.

I felt indebted to Lady Sayaka and would have liked to tell her lots of things, but my mistress had told me not to say anything to her about the spirit world, or ghosts.

‘I didn’t say anything?’

‘You didn’t? I was so sure I heard you mention ghosts just now. Ah, speaking of ghosts.....’

.....On that note, until the arrival of my mistress, Lady Sayaka and I kept up a lively conversation on ghost stories.

* * *

‘Hm, a book that grants wishes, you say? How fascinating.’

‘Isn’t it just?! I’m certain it really must exist!’

As we were talking, my mistress made an appearance and- Hmmm?  Wh-whaaaaa-!?

‘Isshiki, if you don’t mind, shall we go home together? There’s something I’d like your advice on.....’

‘Sorry, I’ve got plans, maybe another time?’

‘Oh, I see, gotcha. See you tomorrow then.’

‘Yeah, see you.’

Who was that guy!? Just now, right in front of me, he had asked my mistress out!?!?

‘Lady Sayaka, who was that? Who is he to Lady Misa?!’

‘P-Please calm down. Your eyes are going bloodshot..... That was Matsuda-kun, he’s in the same committee as Misa..... that’s all.’

Matsuda, was it.....

I’ll remember this, Matsuda-whatever your name is. I’ve firmly engraved both your face and name into my memory. Next time I catch sight of you, you’d better be ready!

‘Yukimaro-san, sorry for making you wait~! Thanks for giving him my message, Sayaka. Or rather, did you two both end up waiting for me?’

‘Lady Misa, great work at school today.....’

‘? Yukimaro-san, you seem kind of off somehow.....’

‘W-Well then, I’ve got errands to run, so see you guys tomorrow! Bye!’

‘W-Wait a moment, Sayaka! .....She’s already gone. And here I was thinking we could go home together, all three of us-’

‘Mistress, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about for a moment. Come with me.’

‘Wh-What? If you say so.’

* * *

 I decided that we would have our talk at Tsukumo Shrine.

Here it was quiet, and there would also be no one to get in our way.

‘What is your relationship with that Matsuda guy!? I heard you’re both committee members, but it sure didn’t seem like just that to me!’

‘Oh. What, so that’s all this was about?’

‘”That’s all”!? The two of you were acting all close! Right in front of me, your boyfriend!’

Unable to repress my emotions, my mistress took my hand as if to restrain me.

‘Yukimaro-san, calm down! It’s true we’re on the same committee, but he’s just a friend.’

‘Uuugh.....so you say, but that might not be the case for Matsuda-whatever his name was. He said he wanted your advice, but I’m sure he was just trying to get closer to you.....’

‘Sheesh, you don’t need to cry, alright? Don’t you trust me?’

‘Of course I do! But still.....! .....I get anxious. You’re just so dear to me, Mistress, my emotions just start running wild.....’

My mistress took a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped away my tears.

‘There’s no one for me but you, Yukimaro-san. I want to spend this life with you. And even after my death, we’ll be together.’ 

Lady Misa.....’

‘Hehe, I much prefer it when you call me that.’

‘Oh?’

‘I mean, recently you’re always calling me “mistress”..... I guess it’s because you’ve become my spirit, but when it comes right down to it, I would like it if you called me by my name.’

‘In that case, I shall address you as “Lady Misa” from now on. Or even just “Misa”..... perhaps not using honorifics will make it more obvious how close we are.’

 ‘Th-That’s-, um.....I don’t mind, but it does startle me a bit.’

Seeing Lady Misa’s face redden slightly as she smiled made my heart soar.

Gently touching her cheek, I lightly pressed my lips against hers.

‘Y-Yukimaro-san, we’re outside-’

‘I don’t care. The two of us are lovers. The couples in those foreign movies kiss all the time, even outside.’

‘But this is Japan.....’

As Lady Misa looked slightly exasperated, I kissed her lightly once more.

‘Where we are has nothing to do with it. Just having my beloved at my side makes me lose all reason.....’

Although I was extremely happy to be in love with Lady Misa, wanting to be even more fulfilled by the joy she gave me, I couldn’t help seeking her out. No matter how much time went by, this was a thirst that would probably never be quenched. 

Because I had ended up loving her to the point of abnormality.....

‘Misa, I love you from the bottom of my heart.’

[queelignapologism]

Queelign Headcanons (Part 1?)

AHEM. So. I originally planned for this to be a list of short points but, as usual, got carried away. Curse you, bowl-cut malewife Quee, curse you and your stupidly fascinating potential as a character.

Queelign can sing. This man is voiced by George Blagden who is an amazing singer, and I like to believe that he inherited the same singing talents. He probably never feels the need to use them though - dude is a crusader - but he could be convinced if one rolls 20 in persuasion. Here’s an extract of George for illustration (solo between 1:15 and 1:52)

I think Queelign might often neglect his own health on his quest to purge all of the graceless. I mean, the man invades us in some random place in Belurat and he’s the only crusader presence there as far as I know, so one has to wonder what in the world he was doing here. Was he just… waiting there for some impure heretics to appear? I also like to think that the yellow-ish skin isn’t natural (jaundice?) and might be a result of some kind of liver damage, whether it be a genetic disorder or other causes of cirrhosis/or just some kind of health condition. Not like it’s stopping him from wooping some Tarnished anyways… (source for below : Zullie the Witch on yt)

Queelign opposed the idea of the Specimen Storehouse with a passion. Assuming Salza sided with Hilde in favor of it, we can safely guess that their position is driven by scholarly pursuits. Now, why would Queelign, who is seen actively hunting the graceless even years after the war, and who seemingly has no interest in learning about his ennemies’ ways and customs, want to preserve the culture of those he deems impure and heretical? If anything, their mere existence is a plague to fair mother Marika! Queelign is first and foremost a warrior, bloodthirsty and fanatical, and as such certainly does not care about the specifics of the people he slaughters. And in the end, war ultimately ends up being all that remains of him.

As time went by, I feel like Queelign would have gotten progressively more scared of the dark. Already when we give him an Iris of Occultation in the prayer room, which blocks out light in all its forms, he freaks out and despairs about Marika abandoning him. This is actually the main objective of the Iris, as darkness=forsaken by the Queen, aka the worst fear of any crusader. And Queelign being desperate as he is for grace, he would take his fear a step further by avoiding all places exceedingly dark. I can imagine that when he takes the time to rest, if he ever does that lmao, he’d wish to absolutely have a source of light somewhere to avoid being alone in obscurity.

Queelign definitely admires and looks up to Messmer, the mere fact that he reshaped his greatsword to match his spear is proof enough. He is also a Fire Knight, which means he was ready to abandon whatever high station he had in Leyndell to serve Messmer. Heck, he even wanted to be Messmer 2.0 as a ‘Second Impaler’. However, Queelign also expresses a certain desire to remain pure himself (« I would not. Am I not pure? »), probably in order to get Marika’s favor, I’d assume. This might explain why he is so different from the other Fire Knights we meet in the Shadow Keep, who are all super tall and lanky, have red hair, and a seemingly burnt upper face (much like the regular Messmer soldiers). Although this could totally just be because of the limitations of the player-type NPC models :P

(This is the end, finally 😭)

[ye-spirits]

The Book of Abramelin: A Review

The Book of Abramelin is a Jewish magical text that began circulating in the 15th century. The author purports to be a Jewish man named Abraham von Worms who wrote this text as a magical guide for his second son, Lamech. Abraham details his journey from Germany to Egypt and back again, during which time, Abraham meets multiple “masters” of the magical arts. One of these masters, Abramelin, he regards above all else and, indeed, he discards the others as frauds and agents of the devil after meeting Abramelin. After they meet, Abraham is taught the secrets of the hermit’s magic, which is Kabbalistic in nature, and bound in service to God. Abramelin directs him to live a good and pure life according to the will of God and Abraham agrees to this despite, as he puts it, appearing to “my friends, relatives, and other Jews as a bad and crazy person.” (P. 16) Some of the text in the book is, according to Abraham, directly from Abramelin himself, who bestowed several Kabbalistic texts upon the author before he left him.

The ritualistic magic described in the book directs the reader to purify themself in the eyes of God in order to meet their Holy Guardian Angel. By meeting the Holy Guardian Angel, the reader is then able to safely command various spirits, including the Four Kings of Hell, Lucifer, Satan, Leviathan, and Belial. The whole operation takes place over eighteen months, though this detail is not consistent across all versions seeing as the Mathers version states that the operation takes six months instead. 

Unlike many magical texts of the time that I am familiar with, this one decries the use of astrology. In Chapter Six of my translation, Abraham von Worms compares consulting the “stars, sun, and moon” with asking wild game for permission to hunt it (P. 120). Despite feeling it a pointless exercise, Abraham goes on to describe how Astrologers divide the planetary hours in great detail and he does admit to believing that the stars and planets affect different things, but only in regards to earthly matters, such as the weather. 

The earliest manuscripts of this text are written in German and date back to the 1600s. Having no talent for other languages and no copy of the original text, I cannot speak to the writing voice of Abraham von Worms himself or how engaging the text is. This is a translation compiled and edited by George Dehn and translated by Steven Guth. Originally, it was also written in German, but Dehn decided to create an English translation with Guth in the early 2000s. If I recall correctly, unlike Macgregor Mather’s translation, the authors of this translation decided to update the language to feel more contemporary. This makes the reading experience easier and more enjoyable overall. I sped through this book fairly quickly, at least compared to other books on similar subjects so I would give this a very positive score for readability. It is also surprisingly funny and I found myself laughing out loud at a couple of parts over the course of reading this book.

Final thoughts:

I'm not planning on enacting this operation myself. I don't really have the patience for this kind of ritual work right now and I'm also not a big believer in God. That said, I think this was a fascinating and entertaining read and I highly recommend it to anyone who is interested in the Grimoire traditions of Western Ceremonial Magic. I hope to get my hands on a copy of MacGregor Mathers version so I can see the differences for myself and because I personally enjoy collecting occult books.

Citation:

Abraham ben Simeon, Georg Dehn, and Steven Guth. The Book of Abramelin: A New Translation. Lake Worth, FL: Ibis Press, 2015.

[corrie-zodori]

Morticia Reference

Personal design I made for myself for fun and to test some things! Say hello to Morticia and her snake tails, Sugar and Spice! :P  She's a ghost hunter and loves anything paranormal or related to the occult. She will probably summon a demon just to flirt with them. She may say creepy things with utter indifference and fascinated professionalism! You can view her toyhouse page by clicking here. Also click here to see moodboard I used to inspire the design. ------------- ⭐ Other places to find me!  ☕ Tip Mug!

Posted using PostyBirb

[brokenbluebouquet]

George Villiers 1st Duke of Buckingham in Fiction - a partial summary

CW: discussions of biphobia and homophobia in historical fiction and current historiography.

Feeling both inspired and outraged in equal measure by the upcoming Mary&George series, and having been fascinated with this remarkable man since forever, I have decided to post this partial overview of portrayals of George in fiction. The ones in bold are the ones I have read. Feel free to add to the list.

The Three Musketeers, Alexandre Dumas 

The Honey and The Sting, Elizabeth Freemantle 

My Queen My Love, E.M Vidal 

Cavalier Queen, Fiona Mountain 

The Dangerous Kingdom Of Love, Neil Blackmore 

The Fallen Angel, Tracy Borman

Wife Of Great Buckingham, Hilda Lewis

Darling Of Kings, P J Womack

The Queens Dwarf, Ella March Chase

The Smallest Man, Frances Owen

The Spanish Match, Brennan Purcell

Captain Alatriste, Arturo Pérez-Reverte

The Cardinal and The Queen, Evelyn Anthony 

Earthly Joys, Philippa Gregory

Myself My Enemy, Jean Plaidy

Charles The King, Evelyn Anthony 

The Young And Lonely King, Jane Lane

The Fortunes Of Nigel, Walter Scott 

The Crowned Lovers, E Barrington

The Minion, Raphael Sabiniti 

The Murder In The Tower, Jean Plaidy 

A Net For Small Fishes, Lucy Jago 

The Arm and the Darkness, Taylor Caldwell

Les Gloires et les perils (?), Robert Merle

And a few I’m not so sure about where George is mentioned in passing: . 

Viper Wine, Hermionie Eyre

John Saturnalls Feast, Lawrence Norfolk 

Rebels and traitors, Lindsay Davis

The Assassin, Ronald Blythe 

Some observations, in no particular order:

Novels set mostly in James reign often have George as a rival to Robert Carr and will attempt to foreshadow how much worse he will be compared to Carr.

The ones that feature Henrietta Maria as Protagonist or at least POV character, where George is normally a baddie trying to sabotage HM and Charles I's relationship, and his death is often portrayed as some sort of salvation for HM. In these books George will often be lamed for things which were IRL Charles's fault such as the expulsion of HMs French household in 1626.

Three Musketeers is practically a category in its own right due to all the film/tv adaptions but has had relatively few clones or imitators in English which is something of a surprise

George is only a protagonist in one of these books (Darling of Kings, P J Womack) in the rest he's a cameo or a villain

Rumours that I suspect authors know is nonsense are repeated verbatim such as Tracy Borman's baseless speculation about G offing the Manners brothers, king James, and his rumoured involvement with the occult.

Georges relationships with James and Charles respectively are mentioned but not meaningfully explored. neither are any other personal relationships he had.

The insights and shifts in terms of post 1970s revisionist and post revisionist scholarship esp. Roger Lockyer's bio of George have not found their way into any fiction set in this era. Georges capability as an administrator and manager of patronage is more often than not totally absent.

the general view of George and why he's often shown in such a negative light is pretty much "well, he was willing to god knows what with that dirty old man James; who knows what other depravities he was capable of" and its female authors who really seem to lean into this, which I find fascinating and disturbing.

EDIT (can’t believe I forgot this) George’s murder in 1628 is always the result of some sort of aristocratic conspiracy rather than the act of terrorism it was IRL. I do get why authors do this - the amount of world building and foreshadowing needed to make it seem plausible rather than random in universe. However making it the result of personal grudge rather than ideological violence detracts from why it was so shocking and important.

[33-108]

137, an exemplary number of Kabbalistic significance - tying physics, math, science and mysticism.

In mysticism, the Hebrew word קבלה (Kabbalah) has a numerical value of 137.

There's a rare, non dimensional, atomic constant in physics known as the “Fine Structure Constant”.

It's reciprocal number which is equivalent to 1/137, is related to the probability of electrons and charged particles absorbing or emitting photons, and is the ratio of the strength of electromagnetic force compared to the strong nuclear.

The number is needed in order to gage how specific wavelengths of light interact in precise ways with atomic forces/ how electromagnetic forces hold atoms together.

This number is one of the constants determining the size of the atoms, and therefore, the form and structure of the visible universe.

This number appears explicitly for the first time in the Bible in the Torah portion of Chayei Sarah: Ishmael lived 137 years.

Levi and the father of Moses, Amram, also lived 137 years. Akeidat Yitzchak/Binding of Isaac took place when Abraham was 137 years of age.

The word “opposite” – “maKBiLot” has a root K-B-L. These verses speak of a curtain separating Kodesh Hakadoshim, the Holy of Holies – from the Kodesh, the area called “Holy” immediately adjacent to it. It is viewed symbolically as the curtain separating spiritual and material worlds.

The number 137 is, therefore, seen as appearing on the cusp of the physical and the spiritual.

"It describes the “corresponding loops” which clasped together enjoin the two sections of the Tabernacle’s ceiling. These loops divided the Holy Place and the Holy of Holies — the physical dimension and the spiritual dimension — and at the boundary line of the physical world, the number 137 emerges."

- Moses’ Tabernacle, the earthly dwelling place of God, was 13.7 meters long

Just as the fine-structure constant relates to the absorption of a photon by an electron, the symbolism of the number 137 in Kabbalah is the "receiving (kabbalah) of the Infinite Light – Ohr Ein Sof (1) – into ten vessels-sephirot comprised of the three (3) sephirot of sechel (intellect, ChaBaD: Chochmah, Binah, and Da’at) and seven (7) lower sephirot-midot = 137 (1 + 23 + 27 = 137)."

Physicist Wolfgang Pauli and Carl Jung were both enamored with the power of certain numbers, including 137.

They were fascinated by the atom’s fine-structure constant and its Kabbalistic significance. They formed a friendship and began a study that led them through alchemy, kabbalah, dream interpretation, and the Chinese Book of Changes.

They were two people who believed 137 was at the intersection of modern science with the occult.

One of the important physicists of the 20th century, Richard Feynman, wrote about the number 137:

“It has been a mystery ever since it was discovered more than fifty years ago, and all good theoretical physicists put this number up on their wall and worry about it. It’s one of the greatest damn mysteries of physics: a magic number that comes to us with no understanding by man. You might say the ‘hand of God’ wrote that number, and ‘we don’t know how He pushed his pencil.”

"The mystery about α is actually a double mystery. The first mystery – the origin of its numerical value α ≈ 1/137 has been recognized and discussed for decades. The second mystery – the range of its domain – is generally unrecognized." — Malcolm H. Mac Gregor, M.H. MacGregor (2007). The Power of Alpha. World Scientific. p. 69.

[despairs-memorial]

🤝 for Gundham, Mondo, Sayaka and a muse of your choice

Pro and Con for befriending my muse

Gundham

Pro: You get to feed the devas. He will trust you to give them treats and veg. It will be cute, and you will fall in love with them, especially Cham-P.

Con: It depends on if you see this at a con or not, but he will randomly send you pictures of animals and info dump about them to you in text whenever he can get the chance. Where is the con, I see you ask. Well, I'm glad you asked. The odds of him sleeping uninterrupted throughout the night are so low, and I can imagine him waking up at 4, doing this, and then crashing until 7, and if you ask me why that is, then you've never had nocturnal animals screaming at 3 in the morning begging to be let in only to run away the moment you open the door.

Mondo

Pro: You're going to get a free ride to places, granted that you can handle how he drives. If not, he's pretty handy in a workshop or garage, and he's more than all right with fixing up what you need, cooking for you, beating someone up for you, or sewing something up for you. He's good at a lot of things.

Con: You are going to end up riding his bike with him at one point or another, and if you're not Kiyotaka, you're going to wish you are just because of how insane his driving is. Will you be safe? Yes, but you're not going to think you are for the entire duration of the ride.

Sayaka

Pro: Incredibly generous and kindhearted. She'll give you merch, advice, a listening ear, really whatever she can, and all she wants in return is your earnest friendship.

Con: There is going to be no trace of this friendship online. It's not as bad as the people in a forbidden relationship with her, but she can't show favortism to anyone aside from maybe her groupmates. It's for the best, though. Her fans would want to kill you for getting too close to her, even platonically.

Sonia

Pro: She will be utterly fascinated with everything that you are super interested in. She loves to hear people infodump to her and to get involved in their interests, no matter how mundane or strange. That said, the more mundane the better, she's utterly fascinated by things like cleaning and cooking.

Con: If you're not a fan of true crime and horror, her obsession with both will be a complete con. You will end up learning quite a bit about both if you're friends with her, whether you like it or not, and her other interests? Conspiracy theories, the occult, and tv dramas. You're not escaping some kind of horror.

[miniaturemoonheart]

NBCBLK

'We're reclaiming these traditions': Black women embrace the spiritual realm

There's a revived fascination with witchcraft and the occult. For Black women, mysticism’s appeal is about empowerment and taking up space in a world that often marginalizes them.

Image: True Heart Intuitive tarot cards

Cards from Rachel True's new tarot deck and guidebook, "True Heart Intuitive Tarot."Houghton Mifflin

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Oct. 30, 2020, 12:32 PM EDT

By Nadra Nittle

Afros. Saris. Sphinxes. Rainbows.

These are some of the striking images found in actress Rachel True’s new tarot deck and guidebook — “True Heart Intuitive Tarot” — released this month with a decidedly multicultural bent. Best known for her starring roles in the 1996 cult hit “The Craft” and the 2002 sitcom “Half & Half,” True has studied tarot for most of her life and wanted her guide to reflect the diversity of her New York City birthplace.

True’s tarot cards, illustrated by Toronto artist Stephanie Singleton, stand out for their inclusive imagery.

“I wanted it to be representative of the world around us,” said True, a rare woman of color to release a deck with a major publisher (Houghton Mifflin), who in 2017 completed a stint as a tarot reader at the House of Intuition in Los Angeles. “I just wanted to have as many skin tones and flavors as we could possibly get in there, and I’m happy about that because I know, for me, when I was reading books and looking at decks, they were all very homogenous.”

Having gained popularity as a parlor game in 15th century Italy — though some have linked them to Mamluk playing cards from Turkey and mystical imagery from Egypt — tarot cards are now widely used for divination and include symbolism that reflect life’s lessons and challenges. But the most established tarot decks have a European aesthetic, which can make it difficult for people of color to connect with them.

Fans have already told True that her collection, which contains both personal essays and card interpretations, is their first time purchasing a metaphysical product by a Black person. Born to a Black mother and a white Jewish father, the actress calls her book release no “small feat” for a woman of color.

Image: Rachel True

Rachel True may be known for her iconic role in "The Craft," but her work in tarot has provided a source for healing herself and helping others.Houghton Mifflin

True follows in the footsteps of other Black artists and creatives such as Courtney Alexander, Manzel Bowman and Tayannah Lee McQuillar who have released tarot decks highlighting Black beauty, culture and experiences in just the last four years. These creators are part of a shift among Black people embracing the mystical and “the dark”: According to the Pew Research Center, the percentage of Black people who identify as spiritual but not religious rose from 19 percent in 2012 to 26 percent in 2017, which is roughly the same percentage of Americans overall who now identify this way.

Black women in particular have launched Black girl magik meetups, witchcraft conventions, hoodoo festivals and goth clothing lines. In addition to writing about tarot, they’ve written books about witchcraft, astrology and the Black gothic, tying these traditions to their cultural and artistic heritage.

But the desire to heal is the major reason these practices appeal to Black women, according to Yvonne P. Chireau, a professor and chair of the religion department at Swarthmore College and author of the 2003 book “Black Magic: Religion and the African American Conjuring Tradition.”

“Black women seem to have more of what I would call an orientation to the therapeutic, and that has been consistent,” Chireau said. “It’s not just about women’s power and witchcraft, and all these wonderful things that the white feminists were about. For almost every Black woman that I know who’s involved in any of these traditions, it comes down to the purpose of this work is ultimately about healing — and not just bodies but healing spirits. So, you won’t necessarily find them out there trying to do spells to remove Donald Trump.”

"For almost every Black woman that I know who’s involved in any of these traditions, it comes down to the purpose of this work is ultimately about healing — and not just bodies but healing spirits," said Yvonne Chireau, author and an associate professor of religion at Swarthmore College.Courtesy Yvonne Chireau

That’s a reference to the widespread media attention mostly white feminist witches garnered in 2017 for their ongoing spell to “bind” Trump — using a photo of him, the Tower tarot card, a candle and other accoutrements — until his exit from office. The spell highlighted the link between second-wave feminism and the New Age movement, both of which have faced criticism for sidelining and appropriating people of color. Since Black women were never centered in these movements, it’s not surprising that their current interest in mysticism may have more to do with healing themselves and their communities than with the current occupant of the White House.

An admirer of the Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung, True regards tarot decks as essentially “a shrink in a box.” In her book, she recounts how tarot helped her process a difficult childhood. She said her exposure to books such as Jung’s “Man and His Symbols” and Nietzsche’s “Beyond Good and Evil,” along with the tarot, helped to ground her as she grew up.

“You can look at them, and see where they hit you on a visceral level,” she said of the tarot. “I follow a Jungian tradition of tarot, so my interpretation tends to lead you down the path to examining yourself because if there’s one thing I know it’s that I can’t change anyone else. I can only work with myself and shift my own behaviors and perceptions. That’s why I like tarot.”

Although True is passionate about tarot, she doesn’t view it as a practice of the occult, a term she said has negative connotations. Instead, she views tarot as a way for people to tap into their intuition. Similarly, she doesn’t identify as a witch, despite playing one of Hollywood’s most iconic African American witches — Rochelle in “The Craft.” The follow-up to that film, “The Craft: Legacy,” debuted this week and will likely introduce a younger generation to the 1996 version as well.

New Yorker Mya Spalter grew up watching the original “Craft” and appreciating seeing a witch of color. Growing up with a Black Catholic mother and a white Jewish father, Spalter said that she can’t remember not feeling like a witch — “I was always a weird kid” — because of her love of nature. It helped that neither of her parents emphasized their religion to her or made her feel that any form of spirituality was off limits.

She ended up working at New York City’s oldest occult shop, Enchantments, and wrote a 2018 book about the experience and the basics of witchcraft, “Enchantments: A Modern Witch’s Guide to Self-Possession.” With humorous pop culture asides, especially about the ’90s R&B group Bell Biv DeVoe, Spalter’s book not only demystifies witchcraft but also sends the message that one can be a practicing pagan using common household ingredients such as salt, lemon and olive oil—a contrast to the Instagram witch aesthetic where photos of altars with expensive crystals, feathers and stones get thousands of likes.

New Yorker Mya Spalter rejects the idea that all witchcraft needs to be Instagram-ready.Courtesy Mya Spalter

The idea that a witch has to look a certain way, have a photo-ready altar or identify with Celtic traditions are some of the reasons Spalter said people of color hesitate to label themselves witches. Instead, they might identify with religions or folk practices rooted in traditional African spirituality such as Santería, Vodou or hoodoo. Others might not be fully aware of their family’s connection to such religious practices. Spalter said that some people have lightbulb moments: “Wait a minute — witchcraft — is that like what my grandpa did?”

The term “witch” has both a cultural and social meaning, Chireau said. “As for my own understanding,” she explained. “I think that a witch is a person who claims the power to heal and to harm, by spiritual and magical means.”

When her book “Black Magic” was first published nearly 20 years ago, she said, few others had written about the history of African American healing traditions such as rootwork and hoodoo. Now, Chireau is not seeing scholarly works about these customs so much as she’s seeing a wave of how-to books from Black women about various mystical practices—from folk magic to astrology to tarot. And on social media, she encounters many people who are spiritually eclectic, meaning they might follow a West African religion like Ifá but also practice astrology.

Recommended

NBCBLK

Former Atlanta fire chief suggests slavery was part of God’s plan for America

Historically, African Americans have weaved in aspects of Indigenous African spirituality with Christianity, making the mix of religious practices a tradition in Black communities. But Hollywood has long demonized traditional African religions in horror films and TV shows, a reflection of the way these spiritual practices were regarded in larger society.

“We didn’t know anything about African religions, which is where it all starts, right?” Chireau said. Those who practiced these faiths were often shown as “awful, pagan, idol-worshipping heathens who happen to be Black, and so you can rationalize enslaving them.” When magic is portrayed on screen, she added, “you don’t see the healer or the hard work of healing.”

Mecca Woods, author of the 2018 book “Astrology for Happiness and Success” bristles at how Black witches in film and TV shows are routinely portrayed as evil or have “unfortunate demises.” As a Black woman astrologer, she’s sometimes subjected to reductive or negative stereotypes, like being called Miss Cleo — the late spokeswoman for a psychic telephone hotline.

After the publication of her book, which shows readers how they can use astrology in their everyday lives, Black people reached out to tell her how excited they were to read an astrology book by a Black woman. Thelma Balfour’s 1996 book, “Black Sun Signs: An African-American Guide to the Zodiac” was one of the last astrology texts by a Black woman to garner significant attention.

Mecca Woods has practiced astrology for a decade and also hosts a podcast on the subject.Schaun Champion

“I remember gravitating to it because it was a Black woman who was writing about astrology, and I had never seen anything else like it before on the market,” said Woods, who has practiced astrology for a decade and also hosts a podcast on the subject.

Although some Black people, especially religious conservatives, may hesitate to embrace any form of divination, Woods said that the Black people she encounters have grown more open to what she labels “esoterica.” They are realizing, she said, that these traditions have always existed: “We’re in a space right now where we’re reclaiming these traditions.”

The American gothic is one tradition that Leila Taylor reclaims as heavily African American in her 2019 book “Darkly: Black History and America’s Gothic Soul.” The violence and dehumanization Black people endured during slavery and segregation have haunted them — and the nation overall — influencing their music, literature and other cultural artifacts.

“Toni Morrison’s ‘Beloved’ is a gothic novel; it’s a ghost story, it’s a haunted house story,” Taylor said. “It is influenced by a true story having to do with the horrors and the terrors and the ramifications of slavery. And the same thing with ‘Strange Fruit.’ Beautiful song with this combination of the scent of magnolias sweet and fresh and then this horror — this kind of grotesque imagery, the smell of burning flesh. It was inspired by an actual specific lynching.”

Black Americans have lived with fear, anger and sorrow for generations, said author Leila Taylor, and those emotions inevitably seeped into their art. Courtesy Leila Taylor.

Black Americans have lived with fear, anger and sorrow for generations, Taylor said, and those emotions inevitably seeped into their art. Across racial groups, however, Taylor has noticed a pronounced fascination with witchcraft and the occult. For Black women specifically, mysticism’s appeal is about empowerment and taking up space in a world that often marginalizes them. But the attraction to darkness, Taylor said, is also rooted in healing trauma. The recent wave of Black horror movies and television shows have allowed African Americans to confront their fears in a safe space, she explained.

For the horror movie star True, tarot has been that safe space. It not only helps her to self-soothe and make better decisions, it also connects her to the “old ways” of experiencing life.

“For Black people, let’s think about a time not that long ago where we really didn’t like to go to doctors, and we certainly didn’t go to therapists,” True said. “So that old woman in the neighborhood who could tell you something about yourself — she was the therapist, right? That’s been a long tradition in Black American history, so I believe some of the old ways are in tandem with what people believe now.”

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Nadra Nittle

Nadra Nittle is a Los Angeles-based journalist. Her writing has been featured in Vox, The Guardian, Business Insider, KCET and other publications.

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[nihilosphere]

Greetings!

I was wondering if there are any specific philosphers or specific philosphies influences your spirtual work and or view on the cosmos it self.

I apologize for the extremely late reply. I don't spend much time on social media and have all notifications disabled. As for your inquiry, it would be difficult to boil it down to a few essentials. My study involves much input from many different sources. But none as important as my direct experience and gnosis. I would highly recommend the book Federick Nietzsche & The Left Hand Path for a fascinating study on the philosophical influence Nietzsche had on left hand path occultism. Manly P Hall is another favorite mystical philosopher of mine and, while not left hand path, he speaks of hidden universal truths in a captivating manner. I recommend The Secret Teachings Of All Ages and The Initiates of The Flame. Anything you can get your hands on by Johannes Nefastos would be of benefit, particularly his books Fosforos and The Catecism Of Lucifer. AMSG by Valentin Scavr is worth reading as well. And while not occult, Yukio Mushima's Sun and Steele is a big part of my ethic and lifestyle.

There are thousands more but I will leave you with those for now..

Cheers.

[ghostlygardendelusion-blog]

hi! I don’t know if ur still doing chart readings but if u could do mine I’d be so grateful. If not then I hope u have a good day man :^)

I also have a question about enemy yonis since I found this out. My sun is purva bhadrapada and my moons in Bharani. Their yonis are enemies with each other. Would this particularly mean anything? I know my actual yonis with my Bharani moon but idk what that’s mean. If u can’t answer then that’s totally fine just curious lol :^4

also the “(1-sagittarius)” things under the nakshatras are the padas, just in case u didn’t know already :p !

Hey my dear here you go for your vedic d1 chart interpretation.

You are born in Uttara Phalguni Nakshatra. Uttara Phalguni Nakshatra ruler is Sun.

You may have quality to lift people up. You maybe very active and productive person. You may be someone center of attraction and protector of others.

You may be someone very impressive to others. You may have strong will power( if you decide on something there is no way to shake you from doing that). You may have blessings of being Lively, intelligent and have ability of analytical thinking.

When it comes to hard work, you are never afraid, which fetches you success.

In your chart Sun-Venus conjunction in 7th house in Aquarius. Sun is your Nakshatra ruler, your Atmakaraka (strongest planet), and your Ascendant Ruler.

Sun is the center of the galaxy milky way and it is a Radiant planet. It gives light to other planets. You may be like that in some people's life.

You may be interested in getting government job or may become a good politician because of your criticizing nature.

You have charming personality and may have less or thin hair.

Mars is Exalted in Capricorn sits in 6th house(dushanth house). Mars is also Dk.

You may enjoy the happiness and contentment from land and property. You may get good support from brother along with decent status in society.

You will win over your Enemies. You may face some loss through goverment. This placement make you fighter ( not fist fighter)and courageous person.

Mercury is debilitated in sign of pieces sits in 8th house. You may face difficulty in communication, Learning new concepts and decision making will be hard for you.

This placement may give you a deep interest in occult and mystical subjects and a fascination with hidden knowledge.

Research, investigation and analysis, solving complex puzzles and uncovering secrets.

Moon-Rahu conjunction makes Ghrahan( lunar eclips) yoga in your birth chart.

Your father may have some health problems. You may be attached emotionally to your father or you may be living far away from your father.

You may interested in high level of spiritual knowledge.

You may do foreign travelings.

Now your 7th house is in sign of Aquarius ruled by saturn sits in 11th house. Mars is dk and in sign of Capricorn ruler saturn. Venus-sun sits in 7th house. Venus-sun Nakshatra ruler is Jupiter. Saturn Nakshatra ruler is also jupiter. Mars Nakshatra ruler is sun.

Your fs may be someone dominant in nature, very honest and loyal.

Your fs may be someone very religious or spiritual, versatile, expert in multi-tasking.

Your fs may be someone workaholic, extreme Introvert, mature, older from you.

You may meet your fs through older siblings, friends or team projects. You may do love marriage.

You should marry after 28 years of age.

Advice: Avoid giving loans and never give loans to others. 2) letting go of ego is key for you to have a good relationship. 3) learn to trust your Intuitions. 4) develop your research skills.

About yonis in vedic astrology yonis are important to see while horoscope matching for marriage. Otherwise i don't have much knowledge about it tbh. Have a good weekend dear🎐🍀

I am not professional. Still learning so please take what resonates with you 🙏

Meditate, do good karma, help who in need, love yourself ❤

[angelasymposium]

I often get comments from magic practitioners suggesting or outright saying that the scientific world does not research esoteric practices with an open, enquiring mind but is rather based on the assumption that 'magic is not real'. Now, what 'real' means might be more within the realm of philosophy, but we can probably agree that this is here an operative term that indicates, in common parlance, something that is verifiably occurring in the tangible world. Science is a massive umbrella that encompasses many disciplines, some within the area of natural science and others concerning Humanities and social sciences. All these disciplines will tackle the study of magic from a very different angle and seek answers to diverse research questions with adequate methodology. In the study of religions, the most common perspectives are historical, anthropological, ethnographic, and sociological, all of which treat occult beliefs and practices with the utmost respect. Here the aim is not proof a causal link between a magic ritual and its effect (this pertains more to natural sciences) but rather the history of a tradition, the meaning-making associated to beliefs and practices, the impact holding certain beliefs has on one's life and on the community, and so on. In my experience so far, I've seen nothing but fascination on the part of Religious Studies scholars when approaching esoteric practices, beliefs and the history of traditions. Luckily, it's not the 19th century anymore and the Frazers and Tylors are long surpassed in favour of a more inclusive and understanding approach, rooted in fascination and not in biased judgement. I talk about this in a past video of mine. Here's the link, in case you're interested https://youtu.be/qgpJHjc6mw8 Tell me your thoughts in the comments! #science #magic #academic #witchcraft #esotericism #ismagicreal #ismagicfake https://www.instagram.com/p/CnhlUu9rrmd/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[jabberwock-the-lemur]

What's your classpect, Sam?

TL;DR - Seer of Void.

Long vers -

I've seriously identified with about 4 classes (rogue, page, sylph, seer) and 5 aspects (light, void, time, heart & breath) and at least considered all 12 of each at some point, but at this point in my life I think that Seer of Void best represents who I am in multiple ways.

There's a lot of overlap between Void/Heart/Breath and Void/Heart/Light, and there's lots of random Timey things in my life, but i think Void describes me because...

I, as a Voidbound player, largely swoop under the radar. i walk up to greet people, they jump in shock how I appear from nowhere. i raise my voice, and nobody notices i said anything. i will give others my attention before i feel comfortable being watched.

I am very, very quiet and i often forget how little people know about me.

I am quite materialistic/nihilistic. Not in a selfish way at all, just a philosophical one! meaning i think that, even if there was some Higher Realm, if no interaction is possible between it and us then we may as well treat it as if it doesn't exist.

As a Seer, the concept of oblivion's specter haunts me chronically. my ideal afterlife has always been one in which all knowledge is available, every minor event can be spectated, every mechanism intuitively understood. that is my idea of paradise, for I believe free information to be a human right and education to be a moral imperative.

I LOVE internet mysteries and am fascinated by obscure trivia of all sorts. i know a bit of biology, a bit of visual art theory, a bit of physics, occultism, linguistics, religion, geography, literature, almost any subject. but, other than my loves of music and philosophy, i don't consider myself *deeply* versed in any of these. i know enough to give the illusion of greater depth to others ppl, but in my own mind i know how little one person can learn.

I am also typically very out of the loop on whatever's popular or relevant at any given moment, while hardly anyone i talk to knows my fav media! 😭

in the past i have been obsessed with total clarity, however i've lately been getting much more comfortable with ambiguity and letting myself let things go: however, i do deeply wish to be entrusted with secrets.

(I say I'm a Seer and not a Mage as a knowledge class because I believe myself to be passive, in all the way it could apply to a class: patience, selflessness, willpower, literal activity, etc. Plus, I mostly learn from secondary sources and not personal experience, more like a Seer)

so, as a Speaker of Silence, a Seeker of the Obscure, Knower of Oblivion, and one who invites being seen through a shroud, I think it only makes sense to call myself a Seer of Void.

BONUS:

If one believes Inversion Theory, then my subrole would be Witch of Light: perfect for a performer and actor like me, someone who bends attention to themself and changes into a mode whereupon they clearly communicate narratively important concepts. I'm told I'm quite good at what I do, too!

... however, despite how great at this my peers insist I am, and how effortless it can seem, at heart I am an autistic introvert and this is DEFINITELY an unsustainable mask over my natural state 😅

(apologies for the mess of capitalisation btw :P)