#theoldgods

[i-am-theseeker]

hekate / yılan ay ve inilti

uluyamamsenin soğuk çerçevenve korkunç ayinlerin ustası. dişlerimin çekildiği tüm hikayelerne güzel anevrizmadoğurmakbir filmle oynamak gibiüzgün dudaklarve geceleri parlayan kaburgalar asla özgür değildircadı dilinin şehveti. sevgilim, bana göz çukurunu verbu iç çekişleri gidermek içinoradaki havaya nem kokusu veriyor. veya yılana dokunbu bir hastalık değil bu iyi. bu iyi birşey.hekate / yılan…

[rinn-e]

For the writers ask!

🍓, 🕯️, 🛼, and 🥤- specially author rec :)

Ah, thank you dear <3

🍓 ⇢ how did you get into writing fanfiction? 

I've been reading fanfiction since I was twelve (googling fanart and finding a German fanfiction website because someone used that art as their profile picture). I always wanted to write some as well (though I wasn't confident in my abilities yet and wouldn't have published any of it). I started with Warrior Cats fanfiction using my own clans :P The first real fanfictions I tried my hand at were for Inuyasha (together with two of my friends), Hetalia, X-Men First Class, and Kuroko no Basket.

🕯️ ⇢ on a scale from 1 to 10, how much do you enjoy editing? why is that?

Maybe a 5? I enjoy seeing the story completed, even if it's imperfect, there's a big sense of accomplishment already. It's nice to revisit the characters and the story you've grown to care about (I usually take a break between the first draft and editing), so there's a lot of pride involved. I'll be honest, though, I feel like I'm not good at editing - 'kill your darlings' as they say, isn't that easy for me, I guess. I might be afraid of making drastic changes? :')

🛼 ⇢ describe your latest wip with five emojis

My epic fantasy original work: 🏺🐦‍🔥🎭🌈💦 (that was fun!)

🥤 ⇢ recommend an author or fanfic you love

You mean beside you? <3 :P

I was quite fond of this fanfiction when I read it years ago: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/2737374/1/Solstice-Night (Star Wars, Obikin) It sparked my love for Obikin :)

This is also a highlight if I need a good laugh: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8186626 (DC, Batfamily)

A gem I read recently: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25509340/chapters/61887730 (Outlast, Eddie x Waylon) I love the portrayal of therapy and psychology here :D

I could add more fics, but you can also just check my bookmarks on ao3 (though some of them are guilty pleasure smut lol).

As for authors:

crownjrose (rosesnblueberries) https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosesnblueberries/pseuds/crownjrose -> I discovered them through their Labyrinth fanfiction, very mature and lovely writing <3

lithugraph https://archiveofourown.org/users/lithugraph -> Who writes amazing Hetalia fanfictions <3

Apuzzlingprince https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince -> I devoured their IT (Stephen King) fanfictions when I was in the fandom back then. Really sad they're not active anymore.

theoldgods https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldgods/works?fandom_id=31741600 -> For their great Rocketman (2019) fanfictions.

Camden https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camden -> For their lovely Glee (Kurtofsky) fanfictions.

Can you tell I'm a multishipper? :P

[whosplayerthree]

#my dude that is literally your evolutionary archnemesis (via @theoldgods )

Pigeon attempts to court falcon

[not-a-crow-in-a-hat]

If humans can summon Cthulhu, humans should be summoned by ants.

[ajtheheathen]

💯% Truth!

[freydis-shieldmaiden]

[poetrythreesixfive]

Thunderstorm, 7/17/21

Tonight, the old gods tore the sky

from end to end in ruthless bliss

as lighting fell upon the earth

and smote the ground with deadly kiss.

I think I finally understand

how ancient, fearful man did feel,

for never have I seen a thing

that made me question what was real.

[thenorthwomanwitch]

They're still here. Watching. Looking out for you. Looking out for the earth. Taking care of the universe.

[stelliumastrology]

😆This made me giggle! Who do you thank before you sit down to eat? . . . #Persephone #paganism #wiccans #prayers #prayersbeforemeals #centaur #lolmemes #theoldgods #mythology #mythologymemes #lolmems https://www.instagram.com/p/CO-LnukJ8O4/?igshid=cc0tle1k73hg

[vildsystervittra]

Have a good start into the new week, and don’t rush anything 🌿

[wordsoftheoldgods]

This painting, "Idise" (1905) by Emil Doepler, depicts a scene from the Merseburg Zaubersprüche (magic charms), two texts written in Old High German (Althochdeutsch) around the 9th century. They represent the only preserved texts describing German pagan belief that were not written by Christians. The first of two charms, depicted here, is a Lösesegen (blessing of loose-letting) describing how Idisen (the word is clearly related to the Norse dísir, and some scholars think that the Idisen are roughly equivalent to norse valkyries, based on behavior. The existance of the German word Walküre(n) does not preclude this; as it is simply a later borrowing from Old Norse) freed captured warriors during battle. Like most spells recovered from the period, the incantation consists of a short reference to magic performed in the past, and then an invocation for the effect to repeat itself (as it was then, so shall it be now). Following is the text in Old High German, and then translations into modern German and English. If you want to read this aloud, remember that <z> and <uu> are pronounced as [ts] and [w], respectively. Eiris sazun idisi, Sazun hera duoder; Suma hapt heptidun, Suma heri lezidun, Suma clubodun umbi cuoniouuidi: Insprinc haptbandun, inuar uigandum! Einstmals setzen sich Idisen; sie setzten sich hierhin und dorthin. Einige hefteten, andere hemmten das Heer, andere nesteln an festen Fesseln: Entspringt den Banden, entweicht den Feinden! Once sat Idisen/dísir here and there. Some fastened bonds, some impeded an army, some unraveled fetters: Escape now these bonds! Flee from the enemy! More info to come in later posts! DM for info on sources :)

[daniboii]

Blessed #imbolc and happy winter ❤️❤️ #pagan #pagansofinstagram #theoldgods (at San Jose, California) https://www.instagram.com/p/B8ByEh6AEZG/?igshid=vgz6n87qz3f4

[nordicbrotherhood]

#thor #godofthunder #odin #odinism #gods #norsegods #oldgods #theoldgods #oldnorse #pagan #paganism #pagansofinstagram #nordic #norse #norsemen #heathen #heathens #heathenism #heathensofinstagram https://www.instagram.com/p/BzCJbm5HNBj/?igshid=10itebqvoelpn

[chaoticnaive]

The old gods are in the smell of summer rain, accompanied by their loud discussions that we hear as thunder.

[freydis-shieldmaiden]

[inonesingleline]

11 for cathy/michael??!?MS :D

Under a cut again for length, and you wouldn’t be blamed for wondering: dear lord how did she make even the snowball fight one angsty???

January, between S1 and S2. :)

“Thanks for doing this, Michael,” Cathy says with a touch of apology, although this is hardly the first or the slightest request she has made of him in the past year. The previous night’s snowstorm brought with it violent gusts of wind, ripping her garden shed door clean off its hinges. Finding it on the ground this morning, Michael was, naturally, her first call.

“You don’t have to thank me.” He glances up, but doesn’t quite meet her eye before turning back to his work again. “I like helping you.”

Cathy feels her face grow warm even in the freezing air. “It could have waited until spring, I know, or until Jason could find the time, but he’s over at Kelly’s all the time now, and I don’t think he wanted to be here this weekend at all,” she rambles, then laughs, slightly embarrassed – by what she said, what he said, the whole thing. “I probably could have done it myself, for that matter.”

He grunts a little as he hoists the door flush against the hinges, holding it in place with one hand as he picks up the screws Cathy is holding for him. “Nah, helps to have another set of hands.”

“If I weren’t here, you’d just use the window ledge,” she laughs again, her role in this not exactly the most demanding.

“You’re better company, though,” he says, his eyes intent on the task at hand.

She shrugs slightly, accepting this. It isn’t the request itself that’s embarrassing, of course; it never is. There is always some ready pretext, on her side or his, and so nobody stops to wonder why good old Michael is always so close by. But he isn’t just there to fix her shed. It is never just anything – a TV that needs hanging, yoghurts going bad. She sees that now, looking back on the last year, but doesn’t see any way to put a stop to it, to say only: Come over, will you, I’d like to see you.

She leans her back against the shed, looking blankly out at the garden. She isn’t very good company today anyway, but he’s kind to say so. He was kind to come at all, but then he always is. Tomorrow… she isn’t sure what she wants for tomorrow. Jason would be gone, preferring to keep his mind on other, happier things, and she understands.  Perhaps she would visit the cemetery, as she hadn’t since that day, because what else does one do, really. She would probably prefer to spend the day alone when it came right down to it, or is prepared to. But she couldn’t have spent the whole weekend like that. Anyhow, she reflects, she is grateful.

“Cathy?” Michael prompts her, gently, but as if he has been trying to get her attention for a few moments. “Can I–?”

“Oh – of course,” she laughs, holding out her hand so he can take the remaining screws for the bottom hinge.

He fumbles to grab them all, his naked fingers brushing against her gloved palm. She smiles what she senses is a stupid, nervous smile, but he’s still not looking at her, so she only has to be embarrassed for herself. It feels wild to her that only a few weeks ago she had reached out for his hand and held it, wanted to go on sitting like that for an eternity really, nothing more, but certainly nothing less. Such a simple thing but it feels brave and even brazen to her now, and she isn’t sure when or if she’ll ever feel so bold again.

But this is not that, and today is not the day.

“The wood is starting to rot a bit in places,” Michael says, tightening the last screws. “It’s fine for now, but in a year or two we might want to get it replaced. You might.”

She smiles again to herself, not minding his presumption, charmed by his revision. Whatever else may or may not happen, it was a safe bet that a permanent fix for her shed, or any other need that may arise, in one year, in five, would be a matter of we. She enjoys the easy security of that, even as she’d prefer not to dwell on what exactly it means.

“I really don’t know what I’d do without you, Michael,” she says now that the job is done, and feels a sudden impulse to let her fingertips glance along his shoulder, just an inch or two beyond her reach.

He stands then, before she can really consider it, brushing his hands on his jeans and shrugging in his self-effacing way. “You’d manage.”

She clenches her eyes tight then, holding back sudden tears that had been threatening all day, tears she had invited Michael over, if she’s honest, to distract her from. Tomorrow, fine, but she can’t spend an entire weekend uselessly crying at every little irritation or reminder. She covers her eyes with her gloved hands for a moment, then wipes away the few tears she’d allowed to escape, letting out a long breath.

“Sorry,” she says, truly regretting having inspired the look of shock and concern he wore now. “I’m sorry. It’s just that’s something Dave said, near the end. He told me I’d manage.”

She had said to Dave, I don’t know what I’ll do without you. She had said, I don’t want to just manage. It was a rare moment of weakness at the time, when the only thing that seemed to hold any meaning for her was remaining strong for him. It takes her by surprise to have almost the exact same conversation now, with Michael – but this isn’t weakness. It is almost the opposite of that, now.

“I’m sorry, Cath,” he says, and it’s the look on his face that could really break her. All he wants in the world is to be strong for her, she knows that now, and he doesn’t even feel he has a right to. So he is there, and he waits, for a word, a sign, an invitation, and she doesn’t know how to offer him that much, or hasn’t, not since New Year’s Eve.

Certainly, she cannot today.

She nods, collecting herself, her manner now letting them both off the hook. There is no need to say it’s fine, it’s nothing; they both know what it is, and they are both going to let it go for now.

And he does, turning back to the door, testing it by opening and closing it a few times, first quickly, now slowly letting it fall into its frame. He is sure of his work, but thorough, determined nothing under his power will fail her.

She takes a few steps away, out into the garden, hands jammed into pockets, drawing freezing air into her lungs.

“It’s good, I think,” she hears him call out, satisfied. She closes her eyes again, smiling to herself, and silently agrees: Yes. It’s good.

She feels giddy with life all of a sudden, feeling now like that girl of twenty in those pictures they had found, cavorting on a beach with her best guy’s best friend without a care in the world. It is forty years later, their summer has turned to winter, but she feels just the same, and he is her best friend; oh forget, for a moment, the rest of it: he is hers. She bends over, gathering a handful of snow in her hands, compacting it into a tight ball.

“Oh, no,” he says laughing, holding up his hands in a gesture of innocence as she turns back to face him.

“Oh, yes,” she grins back, raising her arm in a fake-out first, giggling at the way he winces in anticipation.

“Don’t you dare throw that snowball,” he says, walking a few paces toward her, a mock-warning tone in his voice. It is clear he means: Or else.

Cathy, wanting very much to find out if he’ll follow through on his threat, pulls her arm back again and hurls it at him, landing in a cold, wet splat just against his coat collar and neck.

“God damn it!” he yells out, but he is laughing in earnest now, charging her and slipping a bit as he bends down to collect his own ammunition with his bare hands.

Cathy lets out a yelp and darts in the other direction, genuinely surprised by his speed, and soon feels a snowball pelt her hard in the back. “Hey!” she yells back, as if he has somehow violated their rules of engagement, ducking another snowball as she stoops to rearm herself.

He is too fast, and a third snowball comes whizzing by as she’s still packing hers into shape, grazing her cheek and hair. She tries to wing one back at him from this crouched position, but the angle and the sight of him charging at her again sends her off balance as soon as she releases it, getting one last direct hit in against his chest before she falls toppling and laughing into the snow.

Not expecting this, he struggles to slow himself before he runs directly into her, his feet giving way as he slides to a stop. He falls onto his knees, gasping and laughing too, mercilessly pressing one last handful of snow against her shoulder and pinning her down as she tries to right herself.

“I think I win,” he grins, giving up and laying down in the snow beside her.

“I think it’s a draw if we both end up knocked out,” she counters, relaxing back into the few inches of white cushion, feeling strangely warm.

“You’re right. I’m beat,” he agrees, letting out an exaggerated groan. “I’m an old man.”

She thinks, but does not say: But we’re alive. We’re here.

She does say, turning onto her side and propping her head up on her hand, “Really, thanks for being here today, Michael. I don’t just mean the shed. You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” he says simply, and it’s all he needs to say. He’s the only one in the world who can know: not her particular loss, but a large share of it. They had both loved Dave, together, for forty years. And he didn’t want to be alone any more than she did.

She pulls herself up to sit now, but is in no rush to stand and move on from this moment, whatever it is. She feels a surge of that unknown bravery again, holding his hand out on the front garden wall, and another day, another time, she might have pushed a little further. She can imagine reaching over and taking his hand again. She can imagine him brushing the snow from her hair, and letting his hand rest there, softly, against her neck. And then… her imagination stalls from going much further. But some other alternate or future self knows what then, and the thought of it, just now, does not scare her.

Just now, it is enough to be alive, to be here, with him.

He is the one – exhausted of his own separate and similar thoughts, she is sure – who stands first, making a bit of a show of the strain as if to underline what an old man he is. He offers his hand to help her up – a polite, even necessary gesture, she doesn’t spring up from the ground as readily as she once did either, but she is sure he squeezes it ever so slightly before releasing it again.

They walk back toward her house, brushing caked-on snow as they go, laughing about the bruises they’re likely to find in the morning.

He pauses there at her back door, serious again for a moment, as if how they choose to cross that threshold will dictate how the rest of the day will go. “You wanna talk?” he asks, in that easy way of his, expecting nothing, but open to anything. He doesn’t have to say it for her to hear: About Dave. About tomorrow.

“Not really,” she shakes her head, giving him a playful but honest sort of grimace-smile.

He nods, and makes her another offer. “Wanna get pissed?”

“Yes,” she says, her eyes lighting up, brows raised. “That’s more like it.”

She knows she has a fridge full of his favorite beer, the terrible wine only she will drink, and various bottles left over from the holidays it would only be prudent to dispose of. In this, as with everything else, Michael will be a perfect help to her.

She steps inside and holds the door open for him, smiling.