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shaiyasstuff · 10 days ago

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my little demon | rafayel

synopsis : You accidentally summon a demon. He's annoying, endearing, and suddenly leaving. You hate it, hate him. Except, maybe you don't. And maybe that's the worst part. content : demon!rafayel, fluff, poor references to hell, comedy

“Y/N.”

“What?”

“Y/N.”

“What?”

“Y/N.”

“For fuck’s sake, Rafayel, do you not understand what time out means?” you snapped, slamming your pen down like it had personally wronged you. You turned to him, already bracing for the face.

And there it was.

Big eyes. Slight pout. That tragic, kicked-puppy expression that made him look like a freshly scolded Disney sidekick.

“You look like a goldfish,” you deadpanned.

“Hey!” he gasped, hand flying to his chest like you’d just impaled him. “A cute goldfish though?” He double finger-gunned at you, winking.

You blinked. Twice. “You’re so lucky you’re already from hell.”

Rafayel just beamed like you’d complimented him.

“‘Yel,” you groaned, rubbing your temples, “I have three thousand words due by tomorrow, and my prof already hates me because I made a joke about Plato being a drama queen. If I don’t finish this, he’s going to flay me.”

“I still don’t get why you humans do this to yourselves,” Rafayel muttered, kicking his legs from where he was perched upside-down on your desk chair like an overgrown toddler. “You pay to be stressed out. Should’ve just sold your soul like a normal person.”

You gave him a look.

“Oh wait.” He grinned, sharp teeth peeking out. “Too late.”

You considered throwing your textbook at him. Not that it would do anything. He’d just catch it mid-air with a smug smirk and then use it as a coaster for his bubble tea.

Because, yes, your demon—your demon, what the actual hell—had a crippling addiction to boba. Specifically the strawberry milk tea kind. With rainbow pearls. That he insisted on ordering with your credit card.

How did it come to this?

Well. You were trying to write your thesis.

A comparative analysis of ancient summoning rituals and modern occult trends.

Cool, edgy, mildly creepy.

Your professor was thrilled.

You, on the other hand, were downing energy drinks and googling ‘curses that don’t backfire’ at 3AM.

Then you found The Website.

Black background. Red font.

Very ‘do-not-enter-this-site-if-you-value-your-soul’ vibes.

So like anyone with a brain, you clicked it.

You followed the instructions—chalk circle, candles, some vaguely Latin-sounding chants—and when nothing happened, you shrugged and went to bed, convinced you’d wasted twenty bucks on witchy candles and your last shred of dignity.

Then you woke up to glowing eyes staring down at you from your ceiling like some paranormal ceiling cat.

You screamed. Loudly.

Your RA came running, ready to fight a serial killer, only to find you clutching a pillow and pointing at an empty spot on your ceiling like a madwoman.

He backed out of your room slowly, muttering something about, “freshman psychosis” and, “never rooming with a lit major.”

And now?

Now you had Rafayel.

A demon with a temper shorter than your GPA, a weird fixation with glitter, and a total disregard for personal space, deadlines, or the human concept of privacy.

He refused to leave.

Something about your summoning being ‘binding’ and your ‘aura’ being ‘weirdly cozy.’ Whatever the hell that meant.

You sighed and turned back to your laptop, muttering, “Why couldn’t I have summoned, like, a chill ghost? Or a vampire with a tragic past?”

From behind you, Rafayel hummed, “You say tragic past, but I am the reason a small village disappeared off the map in 1437.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Good for you.”

“And yet, here I am. Reduced to being your emotional support demon.”

“Reduced? No one asked you to rearrange my spice rack alphabetically and by Scoville level.”

“Blasphemy tastes better with cayenne.”

You didn’t look up. You didn’t respond.

You simply typed.

And hoped to hell—or heaven, or the void between—that this paper would write itself before you lost your last brain cell.

You felt the faint, ominous creak of your desk chair’s twin moving behind you—the low growl of overworked wheels scratching across old floorboards.

Which meant that Rafayel was on the move.

And sure enough, a second later, he was right beside you, chin practically glued to your shoulder as he peered at your screen like a nosy toddler who had just discovered the concept of YouTube.

“Oh my god,” he whispered in genuine horror. “What is that supposed to be?”

You blinked. “It’s a nineteenth-century etching of a demon.”

“That,” he pointed dramatically, “looks like if a goblin and a melted candle had an unfortunate child.”

“…Well, it is hell,” you muttered under your breath, barely suppressing the eye twitch as he recoiled at the grotesque, horned figure on your laptop like it personally offended his bloodline.

“It’s just—ugh! You humans get it so wrong.” Rafayel flopped back into his chair with a dramatic huff, lacing his fingers behind his head like this was a casual TED Talk and not your descent into academic burnout.

“Lucifer’s not some scary, flaming rage monster. He’s actually pretty chill. Bit moody. Likes jazz. Wears a lot of silk.”

You blinked slowly, fingers hovering over your keyboard. “Wonderful. Shall I cite you as a primary source, then?”

“I mean, I did know him.”

“Of course you did.”

He grinned, cocky and unbothered, like he hadn’t been singlehandedly driving you to the edge of sanity all month.

You slammed your palms onto your desk with the force of a caffeinated raccoon reaching enlightenment.

“Rafayel.”

“Yes?” he said sweetly, as if he hadn’t just derailed your concentration for the fifth time in under ten minutes.

“I am a senior,” you began, voice dangerously calm, “in the final semester of a four-year degree that I am barely surviving. I have not slept in two days. I have eaten nothing but cereal dust and vending machine pretzels. My thesis is currently being held together by three weak metaphors, one questionable source, and the power of denial.”

You took a breath, gaze narrowing.

“So unless you want me to start writing my next section on how modern demons are somehow worse than capitalism—Shut. The fuck. Up.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he gave you a slow clap.

“I love it when you get feisty,” he said, grinning.

You turned back to your screen.

He was lucky he was immortal.

—•

You threw your hands in the air like a malfunctioning robot powering down for the last time and muttered a tired, deadpan, “Yay.”

The kind of yay that carried the weight of sleep deprivation, caffeine addiction, and a vague desire to start life over as a forest hermit.

When you turned, Rafayel was mid-hover above your bed—legs crossed in an upside-down floating genie pose like some unholy yoga instructor. His head hung just low enough to make direct, smug eye contact with you.

“I’m done.” you declared, the kind of joy only reserved for finishing a thesis or surviving a group project with your sanity intact.

“Finally,” he drawled, tossing his ninety-ninth boba cup into the bottomless trashcan of the void like a three-point shot. The lid landed with a soft clink that echoed like judgment.

You stared at him. “Is that my hoodie you’re wearing?”

He shrugged—midair, still upside down. “It smells like you. Very… stressed and academically overachieving.”

You flopped face-first onto your bed with a groan. “Why are you like this?”

“I’m your emotional support demon,” he chirped. “I’m doing my job.”

“Do your job quieter.”

“That’s not in the contract.”

“There was no contract—”

“You summoned me with ancient Latin and expired lavender candles. I’d call that consent.”

You groaned into your pillow. He was unbearable. Infuriating. Downright catastrophic.

But also… a little fun.

Stupid adorable demon.

“How do I even get rid of you anyway?” you mumbled into the depths of your pillow, the words muffled but laced with the kind of dramatic despair that came after surviving both a thesis and Rafayel.

Silence.

Unusual silence.

Suspicious, even.

You lifted your head just enough to peek over your arm. “…Rafayel?”

No answer.

You sat up fully now, squinting toward your desk—where the demon in question was oddly still, back turned, his usual commentary absent.

That was never a good sign.

You got up, padding quietly across the room like one of those horror movie girls who absolutely should not go toward the ominous figure, but does anyway because narrative choices.

There he was, standing in front of your laptop, staring at the still-open tab with the medieval etching of hell. The fire, the grotesque figures, the tormented souls—all frozen in digital interpretation.

You stopped a few feet behind him. “…You okay?”

His posture didn’t shift. He didn’t crack a joke or throw a boba cup into the void.

Just stared.

And when he finally did speak, it was quieter than you expected.

“They always get it wrong,” he said. “They make it all fire and fury. Screaming. Violence.”

You frowned, uncertain.

He turned slightly, just enough for you to see the flicker in his expression. Not anger. Not smugness.

Something else.

“They forget it’s mostly just… quiet down there.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t know what to.

So you just stood there, behind the demon you summoned on accident, watching as he looked at a world that feared him—and didn’t understand him at all.

He finally turned to look at you, and there was that flicker of a smile again—gentler this time, almost… nostalgic?

“Hell isn’t that bad, you know?” he said, like he was trying to convince you, or maybe just himself. “I had friends down there.”

You raised an eyebrow, arms crossing. “You? Have friends? Shocking.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Rude. But fair.”

Still, the sarcasm didn’t fully return. His shoulders relaxed a little, and his gaze dropped for a moment like he was remembering something that didn’t belong in this room, in this world.

“Yeah,” he said. “We may not have souls, but we’re not cold-blooded beings who only love torture.”

A pause.

His lips twitched. “Okay. Maybe some of us are. Gormax really enjoyed the whole spine-peeling thing.”

You blinked. “That’s not a real name.”

“Swear on the Void.”

“…You people need hobbies.”

He grinned again, but this time you noticed the faint sadness beneath it. Not enough to take over, but just enough to linger.

You glanced at your laptop, still glowing with the static, flaming misery of a human’s idea of damnation, and then back at him.

“You miss it?”

Rafayel shrugged. “Sometimes. It’s home. In a weird, messed-up, infernal kind of way.”

You nodded slowly.

And maybe—just maybe—you started to understand.

“I mean, I understand. I miss home too. But,” you sighed, dropping back into your chair with a quiet thud. Rafayel hovered beside you again, floating like some dramatic ghost lamp as he waited—surprisingly quiet, for once.

“My parents passed away two years ago,” you said, voice soft, almost careful, like the words had grown sharp with time. “So I’ve been avoiding going home. It just… doesn’t feel like it anymore.”

You didn’t look at him as you spoke. Just clicked through the open tabs, saving your thesis with methodical clicks. Save as draft. Save to cloud. Back up to your USB, just in case the universe decided to smite your hard drive out of spite.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was heavy. Like a blanket pulled over your shoulders that you didn’t ask for but kind of needed.

Rafayel didn’t say anything right away.

He didn’t make a joke.

Didn’t deflect.

He just hovered beside you, gaze steady, presence uncharacteristically… grounded.

And for once, you didn’t feel like talking was wasted.

You shrugged off the creeping melancholy with a light chuckle, brushing it off like lint from an old sweater. No need to get all soft and sentimental—this was supposed to be your break from the feels, not a therapy session featuring one floating demon roommate.

Turning to Rafayel, you expected another sarcastic quip, or maybe a comment about your overuse of the word “therefore” in your thesis. But instead, he was just… staring at you.

Not in his usual annoying way.

Not the 'I’m about to tease you for eating dry cereal out of a mug again' way.

Just quietly watching you.

“Tell me more,” he said.

You blinked. “Huh?”

He leaned in a little, expression unreadable. “Tell me more about yourself.”

You froze.

Not because you didn’t want to—but because no one ever asked that. Not like that. Not seriously.

Not with that kind of openness in their voice, like he actually wanted to know.

The demon you accidentally summoned from a sketchy website at 3AM, who drinks boba like it’s holy nectar and thinks your hoodie smells like existential dread, was asking you—you—to talk about yourself.

You were stunned.

Then you did the only thing that made sense.

“…Okay,” you said quietly. “But only if you go first.”

He tilted his head, lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile—something more honest. “Deal.”

You lay sprawled on your bed, one leg dangling off the side, your pillow tucked under your chin like a sad little emotional support loaf.

Across from you, Rafayel spun slow, lazy circles in the air like some haunted carousel ride. At one point he did a full backflip and declared it, “aesthetically necessary.”

And somehow, between the jokes and the occasional sarcastic remark, the conversation had slipped into something real.

You told him about your past. Your parents. The quiet house you grew up in. How you always wanted a sibling—not just to share toys with, but to not feel alone when the lights turned off and grief crept in.

You told him about the accident, how it felt like the world just stopped, and you were the only one still moving.

And he listened. Actually listened.

In return, he talked about the Void—though you were beginning to think “hell” was more of a branding issue than a literal place.

He described it like a strange bureaucracy: souls sorted, some punished, others recycled, a few left in the waiting room forever because someone misplaced their paperwork.

“Torture chambers are real, yeah,” he said casually, floating upside down with his hair hanging like a purplish waterfall. “But they’re for the actual evil ones. Not the spicy-sin level ones. Just murdery, unforgivable bastards.”

He paused, then smirked. “It’s always funny when a priest walks in. So shocked. Like, sir, you were literally laundering money and judging people for existing.”

You gave a snort-laugh, despite yourself.

Then you sat up, narrowing your eyes. “Okay, but—what is your role in all this? Why are you so free to be here, doing aerial tricks in my room and spending thousands on my credit card like it’s demon Black Friday?”

Rafayel floated to a stop, blinking.

Then he stretched out like a cat mid-yawn. “Technically, I’m a scout.”

“A scout?”

“Yeah. Recruits, human surveillance, some possession clearance checks, the occasional ‘make a deal for your soul’ gig—basic intern stuff.”

You gawked. “You’re telling me you’re a hell intern?”

He smirked. “Unpaid, of course. And overqualified.”

You dropped your head into your hands. “Of course you are.”

He floated a little closer, a glint in his eye. “But I was top of my class in emotional disruption and distraction techniques, thank you very much.”

“Yeah. I figured.”

He smirked, all teeth and knowing glint. “You’ll miss me.”

You blinked.

Then immediately scowled. “Fuck no.”

But the twinge in your chest—the subtle little ache—said otherwise.

Betrayal. By your own heart.

Rude.

Rafayel, of course, noticed. He always did. The bastard was like an emotion-sniffing dog, except instead of alerting people, he just smirked more.

“When I get promoted,” he said, reclining into his imaginary armchair like some otherworldly sitcom character, “I’ll finally be able to go back.”

Back to the Void. To hell.

To wherever demons like him belonged when they weren’t terrorizing emotionally constipated college students and draining their boba budgets.

You went quiet, lips pressed together.

Then, softly—almost like you weren’t sure you wanted to hear the answer—you asked,

“What if I want to see you again?”

He turned his head, cocking a brow. “I thought you wanted me to begone?”

“Well, yeah,” you mumbled, rubbing at your neck like you could hide your embarrassment behind muscle tension. “That was before I thought you were… fun.”

Rafayel blinked. Then blinked again, stunned just long enough for you to feel like maybe—maybe—you’d glitched the demon matrix.

“Fun?” he echoed, the grin creeping back slowly. “You think I’m fun?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.”

You groaned and rolled back onto your bed, covering your face with your hands.

From above, you heard the soft flick of a boba straw unwrapping. And then—

“You’re fun too, you know,” he said.

You peeked between your fingers.

He was still floating. Still smug. But maybe—just maybe—a little softer.

masterlist

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skaldish · 9 months ago

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Alright folks. Here it is, my theory of what Ragnarok actually represents. It is very messy and I'm not sure I'm going to be able to actually convey my understanding clearly like I try with most things, because genuinely this is shit I would write a doctorate-level thesis on.

But we're going to try anyway.

So. After doing a lot to try to replicate animistic thinking, as well as taking a VERY deep read of the Norse myths, my theory is that Ragnarok is specifically allegory for societal collapse—the "end of the world" imagery and such is meant to convey what this feels like.

Recall what Odin says in Grimnismal. It goes something like this, since I can't be arsed to find the exact quote:

Huginn and Muninn fly over the world every day; while I fear Huginn ("thought") may not return, I fear Muninn's ("memory's") absence most.

When a society collapses, so does it's memory. It loses its technology, its methodologies, its paradigms, and everything it has learned about the world up to that point. Gone. Entire chapters of history erased.

What causes societal collapse is not always a conquering force, but is oftentimes the result of circumstances that a society orchestrates for itself. Think Rome.

People who have gone through societal collapse will probably develop an invested interest in figuring out how to prevent it entirely, so they don't have to start society all over again.

It's one thing to preserve the memory of "things collapsed and here's why" using a story. But it's another thing to do what apparently the Norse people did, which is cultivate a methodology for cognitively hardening their own society against collapse, using stories as a way to do it.

Like...I'm not kidding when I say they legitimately knew how the human mind works, and then built an entire system of stories and narratives that intentionally support the mind's freedom, cultivation, and agency. I can only convey a fraction of how this works in this post because the rest requires a deep-dive into behavioral psychology and neurological development.

All the tales leading to Ragnarok demonstrate various instances where the gods choose to follow their own agendas at the expense of the real people and forces in the world. All of these little things contribute to the magnitude of the event that is Ragnarok.

The tales represent these transgressions using allegories rather than literal events. This is because these stories were designed for children, who don't process information through a prefrontal cortex like we do as adults. They don't have them yet. But this gives kids an intuitive understanding for how circumstances of collapse feel, so they can recognize them in all their forms.

Loki is an allegory for the mischief we feel as children, and for the behaviors we demonstrate before we get to the age where we start valuing cooperation. In the myths, every time Loki causes mischief in ways that creates problems, the gods get mad at him and threaten Loki's life until he fixes his mess. Loki eventually becomes vindictive, kills Baldr in a jealous fit, and then is punished by being bound and buried beneath the ground, only to fight against the gods in Ragnarok.

The surface-level takeaway is a lesson in parenting: If we punish kids for their mischief, they're going to become vindictive adults, and these adults are going to have it out for the rest of society because they've been disenfranchised.

But it doesn't just end here. Consider how we punish ourselves for our own sense of mischief, beating ourselves up for having "problematic" thoughts and trying to bind and bury those thoughts in the depths of our mind.

These thoughts come from a place our mind known as the limbic system, which is focused on avoiding pain and seeking pleasure, and—most importantly—does not understand the world or make decisions using logic and reason, but in terms of what feels enjoyable and what doesn't.

We tend to call this system our inner child.

When we punish our inner child, that child starts doing exactly what Loki does and resorts to malicious and petty tricks. We can hold this behavior at bay until something causes us to "snap" (like Jörmungandr's tail does) and out comes the malice of the disenfranchised inner child, which creates a terrible cascade of social consequences for us.

Now, if we were to listen to these stories as kids, we would naturally be very upset whenever Loki was threatened of punished, because we think out of the limbic system at that age and Loki is meant to represent us—specifically, the state of being a kid. We would see what comes to pass, with Loki being imprisoned and fighting the gods against Ragnarok, and it would become clear to us that there's consequences for punishing mischief AND also causing too much of it.

Now I don't know about you, but I was very motivated by a sense of justice as a kid. Hearing Loki's arc would have inspired me to learn how to be friends with my sense of mischief while also learning to use it in ways that were cooperative and social, because this would have been how I could right the wrong I felt was done to Loki. It would also mean my own limbic system will not fight against me in the future, but be a modality of thought I can always access. (This is the beauty of the way the Norse myths are crafted; they are designed to instill knowledge of the world using mechanisms that reinforce one's own sense of agency and competency, so rather than being told the moral of this tale, it sets me up to run right into the conclusion it wants me to draw, but in a way that makes me feel smart and therefore inspires me to value it.)

The binding of Fenrir serves a similar allegory. When we become explosively angry in the way that Fenrir represents, it consumes our wisemind the same way Fenrir consumes Odin during Ragnarok. But this only happens if we bind Fenrir/our anger. By demonizing this nature of ours simply for existing, it will not only refuse to listen to us, but also turn against us. Remember that Fenrir was willing to socialize and cooperate with the gods before his betrayal.

(Honestly, I believe this is why ulfheiðnar existed the way they did. Even though the animalistic rage of ulfheiðnar was too terrible for domestic society, it was not demonized, but instead given a social function. People would learn to understand and partner with their own sense of rage, and I'm guessing this is also how they were able to keep their sense of reason and priorities straight even while going berserk from psychoactives.)

These two examples serve to illustrate how societal collapse stems from binding or punishing our own natures. But also fearing our own nature as mortals factors into it.

For example, Naglfar. This is a ship constructed of dead people's fingernails, and its completion is part of what signals the beginning of Ragnarok. But as the story goes, we can delay Naglfar's construction by trimming the nails of the dead before we bury them.

Naglfar represents "neglect for the dead," and this is significant because the act of no longer viewing the dead as people is sort of like the canary in the coal mine for no longer view each other as people...and no longer seeing people as people is what defines Ragnarok.

A society is at peace when its people have no fear of death, and having no fear of death comes only by incorporating death as a normal and familiar part of life, just like we do with birth. Our relationship with death is a litmus test for our relationship with our own humanity—if we fear the dead and cannot see them as human beings, then we are always going to fear a part of our own humanity, and be at war with it. The simple act of keeping the nails of the dead well-groomed because it stalls Naglfar's construction was a way to remind people why such a simple act was profoundly important.

And these are just the things that I can think of off the top of my head that are the most obvious examples. There are—and I shit you not—multitudes of these things laced within the Norse myths.

(I haven't even gotten to the part about how the Norse creation myth uses what the womb feels like to characterize it. Telling this story to very little children helps them establish a sense of familiarity, belonging, and secure attachment with the entire world from the get-go. If they learn the world is everything they've already experienced, then their bodies will never be afraid of it, because nothing about it will feel unknown or unknowable. Like, how fucking dope can you get.)

So here's where we get to the really dense irony of all this: Why we don't pick up on all these nuances as Westerners and have so far missed this entirely.

It is for two reasons.

The first is because our society values the things that the Norse people identified as contributing to societal collapse—namely, the act of conquering/competing against other forces and conquering/competing against our own natures. The transgressions of the Aesir are not things we register as problematic because to us they're normal.

The second is that we don't think animistically. The way we are taught to convey, interpret, and transmit information is designed PURELY by and for the prefrontal cortex, with neglect to everything else (if you ever wonder why Americans look weird in how we behave, this is why). But because we only prioritize communicating this way, we're missing out on all the context added within the Norse myths. These myths function the same way Old Norse kennings did, in that they are designed to speak to ALL areas of the brain at once and in tandem, but if we only engage with it using one part of the brain, we're only going to get a small piece of the picture and the rest is going to look weird.

(Little experiment for you: Try to logic something out in your mind or think through a complex problem without using words or sentences to do it. Use any other kind of thought-process besides language. I promise you that not only is this possible, but it yields a completely different kind of experience and conclusion than you might otherwise reach.)

Honestly, I don't even think Snorri himself fully understood what he was looking at when he was recording the Norse myths. I think he was just writing them down according to how they were told, word-for-word. But his cluelessness is our good fortune now, because he not only preserved the cultural stories, but also what I consider an entire cognitive technology.

And every time I look at it, I can't help but think about the generations of people who sat around the fire in the dead of winter, weaving, crafting, and figuring out better ways to fortify their society, raise kids so they became fine and truly fearless people, and conserve information. This is, as far as I'm concerned, real magic.

They knew some shit.

#ragnarok #zan speaks #norse paganism #I'm sorry if this is incomprehensible #I tried

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vilmathelemon · 3 months ago

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Thesis about binding fanfiction

Hello everyone! I'm an illustrator, fanartist and also graphic design major currently finishing my degree. I'm in the process of writing my BA thesis about fanbinding and fanfiction and I'm gathering information about the practice via a form that has open-ended questions about the subject.

If you as bookbinder who binds fanfics would like to take part in my thesis research and anonymously fill out the form, here is a link to it.

https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSdrUzmaAWZuJgihXQ82bqBKdNf23MCppcyLt2nlrBLpdrIwOA/viewform?usp=header

Your answers would be a big help! Also sharing this with someone who might be interested or reblogging would also be great.

Edit: closed for now! Thank you for all the answers<3

Thank you:)

#bookbinding #fanbinding #fanfiction #books #ao3 #fics #fanfic #fandom #fandom studies

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thebardbullseye · 17 days ago

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The Thesis of Citadel Wizardry

I have been banging my head against the metaphorical wall for a while now trying to figure out what it is about Wizardry and the Lingua Arcana that resonates with me deeply. It goes far beyond the set dressing of the story (which I also love deeply). It is the core, fundamental idea of What Wizardry Is.

Wizardy in Umora is IRL philosophy and metaphysics: which are concerned with the study of the fundamental nature of reality and knowledge. (NB: there are many ways To Know outside of formal philosophy education.)

Wizards are the only Intelligence based casters in D&D, and in Umoran history did not exist until a couple hundred years ago. There is a lot to be said about what that means wrt Empire and the imagery and consequences of that, which are beyond the scope of this post.

Three concepts emerged in the founding of Wizardry: the Lingua Arcana (language of magic), one specific kind of magic: Conjuration (helpfully also a school of magic in D&D), and the idea of the Greater Binding and the Binding of Spirits. Why these three ideas in particular and what do they mean for the Philosophy of Wizardry?

Wizardry is to take that which is Formless of Spirit and thus unknowable, to give it Form, to give it meaning and understanding. To Summon it, to Conjure it, and to Bind it to the Real, yet also to Know and Understand its Nature.

Citadel Wizardry is to give it a Name, to add to Language in order to further define, refine, restrict, control, and diminish it from its Unknowable and Formlessness. To Bind a Great Spirit is to Know and Understand something Great.

Citadel Wizardry was combined with and furthered through Empire, and this has brought about great harm to the Spirit and knowledge-gathering itself.

(NB: much of "modern" science is deeply entwined with the imperialistic and colonialist tendencies due to the historical foundations upon which it was built. IMO, science/bio-"ethics" does not do enough to recognize nor address this fundamental problem. This is a much more complicated idea than can be untangled here, but I thought it worth mentioning as an IRL parallel.)

So, this begs the question: Does knowing this damn the pursuit of knowledge obtained through imperial means to always be harmful? Remember to be wary of questions that provoke binary responses.

Instead, there is a better question to ask: How do you, as an individual, right the wrongs of a broken system? Look at Suvi as a character and at her story. It is plain as day. Clearly written in the Sky.

Here's the common thing among the many different ways To Know and Understand: there are some things that you know and understand both deeply and innately but cannot put into words. Perhaps these are one's values or philosophies or ideals; whatever you call them, these things are Formless. But there are some things that you understand facets or pieces of that you name and point at to be able explain and bring about and manifest that deeper understanding. There is connective tissue here; this idea that Reality is simultaneously and paradoxically made up of individuals and groups (particles, atoms, molecules, chemicals, organs, people, groups, (eco)systems, the world, the universe), and that reality is Beyond Number; it is both Formed and Formless.

This is why it has taken 46 episodes and as many or more hours to take the implicit and make it explicit in this thesis of the show. It must have the slow, methodical study, space, and time to breathe: to examine and understand the facets of the diamond, all of the moving parts, to see the shape of the diamond itself, and to stop the machine of war.

#i will be a wizard defender - not a citadel wizard defender - forever #my god the tale that aabria has woven - that brennan has woven - that worlds beyond number has woven #worlds beyond number #the wizard the witch and the wild one #i can wait for WWW to end and cannot wait for SPACE thing to start - both are true #suvi #suvi the wizard #wbn #citadel #worldsbeyondpod #essay #philosophy #my writing #wbn spoilers #ethics #d&d #podcast

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opbackgrounds · 4 months ago

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The Romanticism of One Piece V: Personal Freedom, The Idealized Child, and Monkey D Luffy

AO3 Part I Part IV

“God will not have his work be made manifest by cowards” —Ralph Waldo Emerson

In chapter 507, Oda writes his thesis for the entire series when he has Luffy state that the Pirate King is the freest man on the sea. It’s a simple statement said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, but it completely recontextualizes everything that’s come before it while setting the stage for everything to follow.

When making a close analysis of this entire scene, you’ll notice that Rayleigh spends much of the conversation not directly looking at the Straw Hats. He’s physically turned away from the people he’s talking to, and the framing Oda uses often puts an added layer of distance between the two parties.

It’s only when Luffy refuses to hear the secrets of the One Piece in favor of having his own adventure that Rayleigh turns around. He looks Luffy in the eye, and…he smiles. Rayleigh had already agreed to help coat the Straw Hat’s ship, but you get the impression that in this moment Luffy’s passed some sort of test, that Rayleigh finally sees in Luffy the same potential Shanks did all those years ago.

It’s impossible to say if this is the reason Rayleigh came out of hiding to save the Straw Hats later in the arc, but there’s no denying that he went above and beyond to ensure Luffy was strong enough to make it through the New World. After all, there’s no reason for him to spend two years training Luffy if he wasn’t rooting for him to become King.

It’s scenes like this that make Luffy a deceptively difficult character to write about. On the surface he seems like the perfect shonen archetype: simpleminded, glutinous, with a vague enough end goal to support a long-running manga series. But it’s as you dig into the specifics that he becomes increasingly difficult to define.

One reason for this is that Luffy remains amazingly consistent as a character over the course of the series. He is both the unstoppable force and the immovable object. He will not be denied once he sets his mind on something and remains unshakably sure in his own convictions. He starts the manga fully convinced in what he believes a pirate to be, spending much of the East Blue saga beating up rival pirate captains for not living up to his exacting standards. While he does go through character development, it is less a change in personality than a refinement of what was already there, like burning away the dross from a precious metal. By becoming a better leader and captain he becomes a better pirate, and at heart, Luffy has always been a pirate.

I’ve already mentioned the importance of Jean Jacques Rousseau’s The Social Contract to the Romantic movement, but he wrote a second work that was just as influential. In Emil, or Concerning Education, Rousseau lays out his theory of childhood education. He was very concerned with maintaining that which was natural, starting with the infant remaining unrestrained by the binding chains of swaddling clothes and continuing through adolescence with Robinson Crusoe as the only book his imagined student ever studies.

By the age of 15 his student would have learned nothing of history or ethics or metaphysics. In Rousseau’s own words, “You are probably alarmed at the number of subjects I have brought to his notice. You are afraid I will overwhelm his mind with all this knowledge. But I teach him rather not to know them than to know them” (emphasis mine).

It was during the Romantic era that childhood began to be understood at its own separate stage of development, rather than seeing children as very small adults. A veneration bloomed for the innocence of childhood, similar to the myth of the noble savage that was equally popular at this time.

My favorite example of this idea of childhood innocence I stumbled across in my reading was Percy Bysshe Shelly’s strange and unfinished poem "A Vision of the Sea". The poem rather gruesomely depicts a ship ravaged by a terrible storm that’s killed everyone on board except a mother and her small child. There are also a pair of tigers that fight a bunch of sea monsters to the death, but that’s mostly unrelated to the point here.

Shelly describes the child of the poem—again, surrounded on all sides by death and destruction—like this

She clasps a bright child on her upgathered knee; It laughs at the lightning, it mocks the mixed thunder Of the air and the sea, with desire and with wonder It is beckoning the tigers to rise and come near, It would play with those eyes where the radiance of fear Is outshining the meteors; its bosom beats high, The heart-fire of pleasure has kindled its eye,

The mother bemoans their fate and tells the child not to smile. She recognizes that death is near, understands the hopelessness of their situation. She mourns. But the child, still innocent and pure, just wants to play with the tigers.

Is there anything more Luffy-like than that?

Oda has said in multiple interviews, most recently when talking with Iñaki Godoy when he visited the set for season 2 of the live action, that he writes Luffy as an idealized child. He recognizes that as people enter society they lose personal freedom in exchange for social responsibility, so he created a character that truly has the freedom to do whatever he wants.

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But for as childlike as Luffy can be, he isn’t actually a child. He bears enormous responsibility as captain of the Straw Hat Pirates. But it’s a responsibility of his own choosing, because he wants to, and it’s not something that’s been forced on him by the world. Luffy’s continued rejection of his Grand Fleet shows how he eschews any attempts to add any additional responsibility he does not want.

To the Romantics, society and civilization were seen as corrupting forces, so anything that stood apart was by default pure. The solution was to be found in nature and the natural. After all, Adam and Eve only fell after eating of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. If one could separate themselves from this knowledge, they, too, could enjoy paradise.

This idea would eventually snake through Europe, developing as it went, until it landed on American shores, and in the 1830s the Transcendental movement began in the United States. It marked the first true American philosophy, and overlaps with American Romanticism. The central tenant is a focus on self-reliance and an inherent distrust of institutions, which they saw as corrupting of the spirit.

One of these early Transcendentalists was Henry David Thoreau, who famously spent two years living alone in the woods as a sort of experiment, building his own house and growing his own food, stretching the limits of his own self-reliance. His experience would become the basis for the book Walden It’s here he muses on a great many subjects, and was preoccupied with the artifice of modern society.

To Thoreau, too much stock was put into material things, with countless people working jobs they hated to support a living that the world told them was required before they could be accepted. The same man was judged completely differently depending on whether he’s dressed well or poor, or the size of their house, or by working a socially acceptable job. People enslaved themselves to the ever-changing whims of modernity and denied themselves the satisfaction of living exactly as they pleased. To quote Ralph Waldo Emerson, Thoreau’s close friend and fellow Transcendentalist, “To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment”. And to quote Emperio Ivankov when explaining how they managed to carve out a slice of paradise amidst the hells of Impel Down, “We have our freedom”.

Neither the veneration of childhood nor the self-reliance of the transcendentalists match exactly with what’s presented in One Piece, but in Luffy there’s an interesting mix between the two. While Luffy makes his reliance on his crew clear, he is beholden to no one but himself. He maintains a child-like innocence and wonder all throughout the series, but unlike many characters who follow this template, he isn’t naive.

Luffy has a unique ability to cut through bullshit. He relies on instinct and follows his heart above all else. During Alabasta when Vivi was worrying herself into knots over the enormity of the coming civil war, he maintained a laser focus on the root of the problem: Crocodile. For most of us, as we grow up our vision is clouded by the outside interests of the rich and the powerful. We get so tripped up trying to make our way through the complexities of modern life that we lose sight of what’s truly important. We worry in equal measures over the past and the future, and in doing so miss out on the beauty of the present. Contrast that to a character like Luffy, who is so committed to the present that no future scheme survives contact with his whims, and who remains so unconcerned about his past that he had no idea that he had a father.

Thoreau makes it clear that he spent two years living in the woods because he wanted to. During the early chapters of the book he says outright that he didn’t want or expect others to follow his path, but to find fulfillment in their own way. For some, this can be seen as selfish, and to an extent Thoreau agreed. He, for example, said he didn’t believe in giving to charity. To him, it was better not to give than to give out of some kind of obligation.

Likewise, Rousseau recognized the child’s ability to turn self-love into selfishness as they grow into adolescence, and took great pains in describing how he would instruct his imaginary student in pursuing his own happiness without infringing on the happiness of others, by having him empathize with even the lowest parts of society.

Selfishness in One Piece is often treated positively, and is one of the key traits that makes a good pirate. In order to chase one’s dreams without abandon, you have to be willing to shove everything else aside. It’s why characters like Yassopp and Olvia are never condemned by the narrative for abandoning their families, and is even the crux of the entire Baratie arc while Sanji struggles to find his “spear of spirit”.

One of the most commonly sited examples of Luffy’s self-centered morality comes in Impel Down. He doesn’t free the prisoners or team up with character like Crocodile out of some moral outrage for the despicable conditions of the prison or because of the inhumane torture of his fellow man. He just wants to save his brother. If he could have reached Ace without setting off a riot he would have, and wouldn’t have felt guilty about leaving the rest behind.

A more interesting example, I think, comes from Luffy allowing Robin onto the crew after Alabasta. It’s easy to forget that Robin at this time had just finished helping Crocodile orchestrate a civil war. The artificially-created drought displaced and killed untold numbers of people. Innocent people, who had personally done her no wrong. While Robin had no intention of giving Crocodile the in-universe equivalent of a nuke, her plans put Vivi and other people Luffy cared about at enormous risk.

And yet, he says she isn't a bad person. Why?

Well, Luffy’s selfish. He doesn’t judge people by their clothes or their work or if they help start civil wars. Robin personally saved his life twice, and for him, that was enough.

The secret that makes Luffy work as a character is that his selfishness is often exerted in the service of others. During the post-Marineford flashback Luffy makes it very clear that he’s ultimately motivated by the desire to not be alone. Similar to what’s described in book IV of Emile, he’s experienced suffering and takes great pains to avoid feeling that way ever again. He’s very quick to recognize others who are hurting and is willing to fight on their behalf.

Nothing else matters. Luffy’s willing to work with psychotic criminals like Bege if it means saving Sanji. He’s willing to team up with Crocodile if it means saving Ace. He’ll declare war on the World Government for Robin and take on the biggest bounty in the East Blue to save Nami. Luffy lives a life without regret, and in doing so does the sort of things that readers bound by the constraints of society only wish they could.

Luffy doesn't fight in pursuit of systemic change. He’s not a Revolutionary. He helps the gladiators of the Colosseum not because he recognizes the horrors they experience under Doflamingo’s rule but because they gave him food. And he expects to be judged in the same way, not caring how the citizens of Fishman Island look at him, but leting them come to their own conclusions based on what they see. Yet systematic change follows wherever he goes, the chaotic, disrupting force of Luffy’s personality refusing to kowtow to any of the great powers of the world.

This brand of selfishness would be terrifying if Luffy were not so quick to make friends. In searching for his own liberation he ends up liberating others by complete accident. At the same time, the characters who catch Luffy’s attention are the characters who fight for themselves, even if they aren’t strong enough to win without his help. This is seen from the very earliest chapters in the series, when Luffy only intervenes on Coby’s behalf after the latter insults Alvida, or how the Straw Hats only help Usopp fight off Kuro because he’s first willing to protect his village. Even the Revolutionary Army is only interested in helping those who are willing to pick up arms, making this a theme that transcends the pirate-focused narrative. The overwhelming force of nature that is Luffy empowering rather than conquering as he pursues his own ultimate freedom.

With this in mind, it comes as no surprise that the original Joyboy was the first pirate, or that Luffy is his successor. The character of Joyboy seems to be based on Caribbean myth brought over by West African slaves, and is a figure of dance, joy, and chaos, uniting people via celebration. It’s no accident that every big arc ends with a party and that people are brought together by their ability to genuinely laugh and be happy.

(Credits for this go to this reddit thread. Sadly sources on the real world Joyboy myth seem to be sparse)

While the ultimate significance of Joyboy and the nature of Luffy’s devil fruit have yet to be revealed, Luffy is no stranger to fighting against in-universe religious powers while ultimately taking the form of a god himself. It’s important, I think, that Oda portrays religious beliefs fairly neutrally up until the point where they cause human suffering. Skypiea remains a theocracy even at the end of the arc. The destruction of the spirit tree grove of the Shandians is treated with utmost seriousness. Dorry and Broggy fighting because of their belief in the god Elbaf is one of Usopp’s main inspirations throughout the series. And yet in both a literal and figurative sense, Luffy is God’s natural enemy.

Because at the end of the day no one, not even God, should stand in the way of progress and liberation. For Luffy, he finds that freedom in his adventures across incredible and impossible lands. This is something that would have resonated with the Romantics of old, as they often found God not in dark, dusty churches, but in nature, and their pursuit of the sublime.

#opbackgrounds #one piece #the romanticism of one piece #romanticism

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sashiavi · 1 year ago

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•··········🍑···········• ֪٘ ︶ ͝ ٘⏝𖹭⏝ ͝ ٘︶٘ ֪•···········🍑··········•

𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚆𝚊𝚜 𝙰 𝚁𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚃𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚛 𝙷𝚊𝚍 𝙰 𝙵𝚒𝚝 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙰𝚝𝚎 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚜𝚔 </3 | 🫶 𝙰𝚗𝚘𝚗 𝙸𝚏 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝙾𝚞𝚝 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝙾𝚗𝚎'𝚜 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚈𝚘𝚞 ♡♡

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𝙰𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚖 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚡 𝙺𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚑

♡𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗♡ You and Alhaitham Punish Kaveh

•· ֪٘ ︶ ͝ ٘⏝𖹭⏝ ͝ ٘︶٘ ֪·····.•🍑•.····· ֪٘ ︶ ͝ ٘⏝𖹭⏝ ͝ ٘︶٘ ֪·•

Oh, poor little Kaveh.. He deserved it, really.

For always paddling along, voice cracking with every flourish of his arms as he complained on and on about the Nth horrendous client he'd picked up that month. For causing a scene at the front door, scowling deep and poking Alhaitham in the chest with his pointer finger, scolding the man for leaving him out without a key again. For arguing with you on the public notice board about your thesis a g a i n.

For looking so pretty all the goddamn time, leaving poor You and poorer Alhaitham to fend off the aching, pooling swamp of hot arousal. Kaveh had a grip on you, always managing to cause a fluster, a kickstart of your heart, sending the poor organ into overdrive.

It all finally boiled over.

On one seemingly lazy afternoon, there sat you, nearly dozing into the pages of a book in the warm beam of the sun through the stained glass. Nearby, Alhaitham crosses his leg over the other, reaching over and hooking his fingers around the vessel that held his tea. All was peaceful.. Until it wasn't.

The rough metallic jingle of keys scrapes against the front door before the wood scrapes open and closes with a hearty thud. The bossy footsteps of Kaveh waddle through the front room, clearly laced with irritation.

“Afternoon Kaveh-” You start before being immediately cut off.

“Take your shoes off before entering, Kaveh.” Alhaitham chastises without even lifting his eyes from his page. A scoff resounds through the room.

“Please, with the day I’ve had you ought to cut me some slack you know? I come home and you're sitting around, do you even know what I do in a day?” Here he goes.. Again.

“I get things done when I’m supposed to. Now, go entertain yourself elsewhere, we’re reading.” At this point, Alhaitham was purposely riling him up. Surely.

“You know what, you’re probably not even reading anything all that substantial.” Kaveh flicks his draping cape over his shoulder and begins marching through the hallway. Alhaitham instantly snaps his head towards you.

Welp. That was it. If Kaveh was going to act< like a Brat, then they would treat him like a Brat.

•·····················••·····················•

Almighty Archons, please just have mercy and smite him already. Kaveh couldn't even remember how he had gotten himself into this position. His knees sting and ache as they press into the scratchy Persian rug Alhaitham had ever so graciously brought into the home. The pattern clashed with everything in sight, he nearly ought to voice it. If his mouth wasn't occupied at least. His jaw aches as he engulfs the soft heat of your pussy, tongue ever so eagerly pressing past your entrance, nose digging into the swell of your clit. Kaveh itches to rake his hands over your plushy thighs, to sink his fingertips into your skin, press your pretty self into the divan below. He nearly attempts it, almost forgetting the poor state of his wrists.

Kaveh’s dainty, milky wrists scrape against whatever barbaric binding Alhaitham decided to wrap him up in. His poor joints sting in apprehension, throat nearly whining as he attempts to pull against it. He barely manages to focus on the sensation, not before a firm hand wraps its fingers through his hair. The digits wind their way through the strands of his locks, twisting dangerously close to his scalp. A pressure builds, the fingers tug hard, carding his head forward, forcing him to bury his face deeper into the sweet, wetness of your pussy. Kaveh can't help but moan out loud, keening airily into your core as Alhaitham’s firm grip tugs him hard.

“Don't get distracted now.” Alhaitham’s voice burns in his ear, ever so leveled in order and authority. A hot shiver spikes through Kaveh’s neck, tingling down his arms, barbed in an aching sting. He engulfs his mouth over the sweet bud of your clit, his neglected cock twitching hard as you moan out. His pretty face mashes into your cunt, dribbling sweet slick over his cheeks and down his chin. Poor Kaveh could barely keep his eye on you, bleary and tearful pools of carmine nearly falling cross-eyed. Your hand comes to join Alhaitham's, caressing over the strands of hair that fall over his forehead with a newfound softness, completely unlike the tight pull of the other man.

“..s’ a good boy… isn't he..?” Your soft voice breaks through the sticky sounds of Kaveh's tongue against your cunt.

“He's enjoying himself..” Alhaitham rasps back. Throaty moans dribble off of Kavehs tongue as he eagerly laps and kisses at your puffy little clit. His cock jumps and aches at every little noise you make, the squirmy crane of your hips, the hot press of your thighs against his ears. He bucks his own hips into nothing, fucking pitifully into the air, yearning for any little sense of friction - One touch and he was gone, he was sure of it.

A hand pulls him back by his hair, fingers twisted through his locks, stinging hard on his scalp. The movement is sudden, snapping his neck backwards, pulling him off of your sweet, gooey pussy. Kaveh’s achy tongue lulls out with a whining moan, a sticky dribble of slick and saliva follows him, stringing from his tongue and down his chin. His carmine eyes go into orbit, rolling prettily, barely focusing on the hot, stern scrunch of Alhaitham’s face peering down at him. Kaveh pants, licking at his slick swollen lips.

“Enjoying himself a little too much..” Alhaitham's eyes squint. His other hand comes to cup at Kaveh's chin, fingers squishing his cheeks together, nearly slipping at the wild concoction dripping from his lips. Kaveh's neck cranes in Alhaitham's firm hold, pulsing an ache through his ears and behind his eyes. He breathes hard, rivulets of his broken voice barely peeking from his throat.

“Open. Tongue out.” If poor Kaveh's head wasn't absolutely swimming he'd have a comeback for Alhaitham's tone, maybe tell him to use his manners for once. But silly Kaveh just follows, lulling his tongue out just as Alhaitham instructed.

The moan that gargles from Kaveh's mouth as Alhaitham spits a hot glob of saliva on his tongue should be embarrassing. If it weren't burning hot already, his face would flush red, perhaps he'd even cry a little. Kaveh couldn't care, not with Alhaitham's piercing gaze, gritted jaw tensing down at his pitiful self. Not with your pretty self laid out in front of him, decadent and sweet like sticky pudding, ever so tempting. Alhaitham breathes through his teeth above him.

“Gods… You're all dumb already huh? Didn't take much, Kaveh” Alhaitham's grip tightens on Kaveh's chin, stinging his cheeks, pressure ringing hard in his ears.

“Be nice to himmm~” He barely hears you whine. You shift up, fingers curling over Alhaitham's own, easing up the hot prickling tenseness tethering behind Kaveh's cheeks. His eyes barely roll in relief before your lips are on his, tongue lapping eagerly into his mouth, swirling the sticky mess of everyone between the two of you.

Kaveh’s brain swirls in a whirlwind, half delirious and barely aware, his body screams and aches but his cock just leaks, begging to be touched. Once again, he hardly recalls the exact way he ended up like this. Hands pressed hard into his lower back, steadily going numb under the pressure of his weight. His fingers tingle with spiky pins and needles, the binding on his wrist digs into the soft untouched skin of his back. His chest heaves in his peripherals, glazing into his vision as he stares up at your pretty naked form, straddling him down, pinning his hips to the divan below.

Your pretty pussy dribbles on the tip of his cock, sliding up and down over and over, catching his pudgy head against your clit. Kaveh can't help but watch on, throat never quiet, hiccuping short breaths and whines as you grind on his length. Alhaitham's footsteps trek over the hardwood floors of the house, steadily coming closer. Since when did he disappear? Gods. Kaveh was out of it.

Through his bleary vision, Kaveh watches Alhaitham hand you something, not before cupping your chin and kissing hard against your lips. Kaveh whines at the involuntary wriggle of your hips, spurred on by the searing kiss of the man above. His head tilts back, eyes shutting with a soft exhale. His chest jumps with every slow breath he attempts to make, shoulders twitching in anticipation. It goes quiet, a short scuffle of feet on the floor and then stillness, it was uneasy, a foreign calm before the storm. Gods, was there a storm.

Kaveh's head snaps upward, eyes wide, lips tensed hard under the pressure of his teeth. His pretty cock tenses and aches, drooling milky strands of pre right onto the folds of your cunt. What was this feeling? A hot buzz, pressed right into the sensitive underside of his cock, nestled sweetly against his pretty pink head. Your hand presses the device against him, rubbing it in little circles, massaging the sticky curve of his cockhead.

What even was it? Some godforsaken contraption Alhaitham had managed to procure from Fontaine? Gods.. He couldn't care - Not with how wet and sticky you feel on him, rubbing his leaking cock with your pussy. Not with the sweet, sweet buzz of the device shooting achy zaps of pleasure through his sensitive tip. Kaveh's hips squirm, both keening into your sweet wetness and away from the stinging vibrations.

There's a slap to his inner thigh, easily followed by a high yelp from poor Kaveh. Large, warm palms pin his thighs to the divan, a head of grey creeps over your shoulder. There's a glint in Alhaitham's eyes and an unamused tilt to his lips.

“Don't go running away now..” He chastises, nipping into your neck from behind, kissing into the naked skin.

“Jus' too good.. huh Kaveh..~” Your voice crumbles from your lips, soft and breakable. Your hips speed up to prove a point, sliding his length up and down your milky pussy, pressing the vibrator hard into the plushy divet of his cockhead. He watches his cock spurt thick globs of pre, mixing into the sweet mess you've already made on his lap.

“P-Please-” Kaveh manages, his tone cracked in half, barely able to formulate a proper word. His hips buck upward in little fucks, poking your clit with his length. His mouth gapes open and closed, undecided if he wants to lul his tongue out or bite through his glossy, swollen lips.

“Yeah..? Please w-what..” You speak again, head tilted down, one hand pressed to his chest, the other, circling the device up and down the pretty fold of his tip.

“Please..! S'too much.. want it in~” Kaveh lulls his head from side to side, openly moaning out, chest stuttering his breaths. A hand wraps around your own from behind. And Kaveh cries. A quick click and the device buzzes harder, pressed firmer into his gushing cock, prickling hot static right into his groin. His eyes lock on his cock, device overtaken by Alhaitham, switching between a firm press and a cheeky massage on his length. Your hips move harder, coating his tip in your sweet cream, dribbling it down his length. Kaveh nearly throws his head back, but fuck, he can't stop watching.

Kaveh's cock pulses hard, throbbing and stinging as Alhaitham bumps the buzzing vibrations up another notch. He openly cries out, eyes doughy and criss-crossed, face surely flushed red.

“Cant-! Need it in.. In! S'too much-” Poor Kaveh babbles out, shamelessly fucking his cock through the folds of your cunny, surely spreading the buzzing vibration to your clit. He somehow manages to hold in a screaming keen, his last ounce of resolve finally breaking down.

“Im- cum… in! Gonna-! Ahn~” Kaveh spreads his thighs and thrusts, leaning on his elbows, throwing his head back with a sob as he creams all over your pretty pussy. The hot press of the vibrator never lets up, rubbing up and down his spurting length, coaxing him through the hot pulse of his orgasm. His ears ring, barely making out a voice of someone, babbling sweet praises while he cums himself stupid. The God's have mercy on him for a moment, easing up the aching vibrations on his cock.

It doesn't last long. Kaveh's half hard length easily slips into the sweet hug of your pussy with a little push. His ears burn red, messy cock still spurting pretty rivulets of hot cream right into your warm cunny.

“Can't! Too much!” He's sure he'll start sobbing.

“Thought you w-wanted it in me, Kaveh~” You say with a breathy giggle, grinding your hips against his lap.

“Can’t even take what you begged for..” Alhaitham's rotten tone cuts through his brain. He watches the man start the device up again, now pressing it right into the perky nub of your clit. You keen airily, grinding down on Kaveh's sensitive cock with a newfound vigour, subjecting the poor man to a never ending sting, engulfed in achy pleasure. He moans out as well - Though he wasn't sure he ever stopped - jolting from the ever present vibrations now buzzing through the soft gushy walls of your pussy.

Kaveh's wrists ache, his stomach twinges every time he flexes his hips, his lips sting from the hard impression of his teeth. Pliant and pretty and ever so stuck in place. Pretty tears glob down his cheeks, eyes closed, rolled into the back of his skull. His throat crackles in a constant stream of whimpers and whines, battered by his voice refusing to shut off. Your hips rock on his faster, voice keening higher and higher. Kaveh can't help but crack his eyes open, watching your pretty form come undone on his pathetic spent cock and the buzzing device.

Your pretty pussy clenches on him, fluttering hard as you cream right on his length, easily coaxed by Alhaitham behind your form, twiddling and touching you in all the right places. He moans along with you, whining at the hard pulse of your walls on his leaky cock. Gods he ached, in so many places - And yet he found himself sickeningly craving more. More, more. More Alhaitham more you.

He almost protests when you jump off of him, coming to kneel by his head, wiping the sheen of sweat off of his forehead, teasingly nosing into his cheek. He graciously accepts a tender kiss, lapping into your mouth before pulling away with a start.

Large palms slide up the back of his knees, slowly bending them, pressing his thighs into his chest. Alhaitham licks his own lips, bumping the thick, pudgy head of his cock against Kaveh's pretty, slick hole. Gods, did he want more.

Helloooo~ long time no seeeee ~ ~ A little smth smth for you 😘

I'm hopefully back? Doing my best 😔😩 it's been a while sksk

•··········🍑···········• ֪٘ ︶ ͝ ٘⏝𖹭⏝ ͝ ٘︶٘ ֪•···········🍑··········•

Thank You For Reading! Comments Are Always, Always Appreciated! I'll Kiss You fr *mwah*

♡ᵀᵃᵍˡᶦˢᵗ♡

@madsw9 @pvbbyb0y @heath-sama @shiningpaint-marbleheart @the-massive-simp @tericula @a-random-weeb

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gynandromorph · 9 months ago

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another nofna style emulation strip... i haven't drawn anything about Legend's HIOT treatment, even though it is kind of important, mostly because... no fight scenes, lots of tiny letters and twisting roots, and its contingency on other events happening first (like it'd be weird to draw her going to HIOT before even drawing the strip with the voice in it). at the same time, most of the information here? totally just restated information already known by the audience--

Resolve looks small compared to JS, but she's actually quite large... they're just very different heights.

(technically you could also call Remitting Dr. Remitting because she is also qualified to treat patients......) The Rationale member is an african savanna hare.

i want to say that Resolve's an interesting character, in that i don't really have strong opinions about her, which usually means They're Complicated, but i'm kind of meh about her. she's just very Normal. eventually i will write a follow-up strip with her and Remitting post-JS-treatment where her relationship to her patients and work is elaborated upon a little. she is almost 46 years old and she has outlived generations of patients -- for short-lived rodents, probably generations in the double digits. she gets to see from admission to death the results of her work, or lack thereof. i wouldn't say that she has a sense of superiority, as i think she tries to cultivate an open-mindedness, but she has so much experience, she can be quick to solidify her thoughts on matters, and she is not easily swayed by dissenting opinions from younger individuals when she knows her opinion will outlive theirs by her mere act of Continuing to Exist.

as demonstrated in Glyptography, it seems that some HIPAA-alike doesn't exist in this society, and HIOT members are free to comment on any patients in their care. still, with a more legally binding case of committal, i decided that there would be one "lead" individual who had legal guardianship over a patient, and, consequently, the final word on their treatment. Parabola described HIOT in a variety of ways, along with its functions, which included "cataloging anomalies" and "behavior oversight." he also noted that cataloging or investigating behaviors was more of an "early" stage of HIOT, whereas modern HIOT ascribes meaning to the findings and formulates legal conclusions (along with, presumably, still monitoring and controlling anomalous behavior). i treated the admission of patients as fairly common, then, perhaps one of HIOT's main purposes at this point, where members would contend with the fact that there was just an endless stream of new people to treat -- their work didn't seem to change anything about the root of the problems they're tending to.

JS failed her metanoia proposal due to incompletion. what she had while sparring with Machinations, was mostly all she still had by the time she was expected to turn in a thesis, albeit she could spell entire words now. her proctor was willing to pass her with a low grade because it WAS undeniable, even if devoid of apparent purpose.

Remitting and Resolve are, like Misgivings, wearing Guthriea capensis, hidden flower, as corsages. Resolve is wearing a female flower, and Remitting is wearing a male flower. it grows hidden under its own leaves, and its nectar is very bitter, driving most pollinators away. i could have used the same flower that smoothie wore, but i Did Not Feel Like It. the Rationale hare is wearing pale everlasting flowers (Helichrysum pallidum). i figured they would all wear the same corsages? but i don't think we've seen a Rationale member clothed... Maybe the wolf official from Syconium, but that's ambiguous. I had Legend wear a rather formal and pricey mantle, because this is a very humiliating situation for her, and I feel she'd dress up to the 9s to compensate for this loss of face. her corsage is large mountain ink flowers (Cycnium racemosum), a semi-parasitic plant which primarily uses sedges and long grasses as hosts. these flowers turn dark like ink when damaged -- hence their name. they can grow very large, up to multiple feet tall, and she has the long stem threaded through the front of her mantle. her paws are covered in abrasions, not dirt, and her claws have been worn down almost to the quicks due to excessive digging and scratching at surfaces like tree bark.

anyway i think that's all i have to say about this one it's not my most interesting strip. it facilitates later strips like legend asking Resolve about false memories or accessing HIOT documents to pass time and developing her thesis with this new knowledge.

#nofna shitposting #partaking in the act

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indigovigilance · 2 years ago

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Baraqiel and Azazel

Disclaimer: DO NOT ask Neil Gaiman to confirm or deny any of this. He doesn't want you to ask. I don't want you to ask.

SO DON'T ASK.

Edit: Neil confirmed this theory and it's not my fault: see the reblog

Now, on with the meta.

Thesis and evidence below the cut:

Dominion...

Angel of the Sky...

Hair an eye-burning ginger, eyebrows like grisly slugs, often draped in red…

Occasionally damp...

Most likely singed…

So that's everything from purely within Good Omens canon.

Baraqiel is described, additionally, in the Book of Enoch as:

Lord of Lightning

Who taught the forbidden knowledge of astronomy:

He is also the overseer of the Second Heaven, wherein lies the prison of Fallen Angels. More on that later.

The story of Baraqiel’s ejection from Heaven is contained in the Book of Enoch, but he’s not a main character. In fact, he’s only one of twenty major fallen angels, specifically, the ninth. The tenth is Azazel.

Who, then, is Azazel?

Firstly, Azazel is a fallen angel:

Who is damned because he introduces humans to forbidden knowledge, specifically, the knowledge of swords [and other devices of warfare]:

And also the knowledge of adornment, specifically, “the art of making up the eyes, and of beautifying the eyelids, and the most precious stones, and all kinds of coloured dyes.”

And insofar as Azazel is synonymous with Azzael, he denounces the authority of the Metatron:

In fact, Azazel is given all the blame for revealing the secrets of Heaven: “the whole Earth has been ruined by the teaching of the works of Azazel; and against him write: ALL SIN.”

and God orders Raphael punish Azazel: “And further the Lord said to Raphael: "Bind Azazel by his hands and his feet and throw him into the darkness. And split open the desert, which is in Dudael, and throw him there.””

We never learn in the Book of Enoch that Raphael actually does this (based on my reading), but it was commanded. In fact, Raphael would have had to throw Azazel into that prison which was in the domain of Baraqiel.

This puts Baraqiel!Crowley and Azazel!Aziraphale among the ranks of angels that went to Earth and delighted in Earthly pleasures, which caused them to be “fallen,” that God refused to speak to from then on, that Enoch!Metatron was ordered by God to tell that they were unforgiven and would never be forgiven.

It’s worth noting that there seems to be some disagreement among rabbinical scholars over whether Samyaza, Azza, Azzael, and Azazel are separate entities or if these are different names for the same entity. We should also remember that in the universe of Good Omens, entities change names when they ascend to or fall from Heaven.

Tying this all back to the Metatron: In 3 Enoch, the book which describes the ascent of Enoch the man to Metatron the angel, we learn that the overseer of the Second Heaven is Baraqiel, angel of lightning. The description of the prison in the Second Heaven and the angels trapped within it is terrifying, but not more than Enoch’s own actions when he is there.

At this point Enoch has not been transfigured into the Metatron yet, but when he passes by, the angels ask him to pray for them to the Lord; and he refuses, for “who am I, a mortal man, that I may pray for angels?” He is told about them again in the Fifth Heaven, about their sins, how they followed Satan, and that they will be punished on Judgment Day.

So we have a lot of reasons here to see that there would be enmity directly between the Metatron and Azazel, for questioning his authority before God, and between Baraqiel and Enoch!Metatron, for either Baraqiel was guarding the prison or already in it when the human who would become Metatron was supplicated for prayers of redemption and refused. Either way, the Metatron is responsible for Baraqiel’s fall, most directly because he refused to take the petition of the fallen angels before God and instead relied on his interpretation of a dream.

There’s been a lot of implication and even exposition throughout S2 that memory is vulnerable to erasure. We’ve gotten some direct hints that Crowley doesn’t remember all of his past, but I would venture to propose that Aziraphale has a very troubled past that he does not remember, that the Metatron (and possibly Crowley) does, and that further, because his memory was [partially] removed, his name was changed to Aziraphale, for which we see precedent in Jimbriel and all the demons.

My absolutely unhinged, unsubstantiated S3 prediction is that Angel!Crowley sacrificed himself to rescue Azazel from damnation, and the price of Azazel remaining an angel was losing the memories of his transgressions, including (and especially) those he formed with Angel!Crowley. That at the Garden of Eden, Crawley!Crowley knew that these things had been erased, and that he was probably talking to a husk of his former friend, the way that Jim was a husk of Gabriel, but that when he learned that Aziraphale had given away the sword, realized that the soul of the person he loved was still in there.

Partner post: For a meta on why we should believe that Enoch!Metatron aka Human!Metatron is a possibility, go here.

Edit: I read the Book of Enoch from front to back, twice, but if you want to check my work (or write a response meta!) you can find the source material here and here.

If you liked this husbands-centric meta, you may like A Nightingale Sang in 1941

If you liked this historic event speculation, you may like Sodom and Gomorrah

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens meta #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #metatron #good omens theory #baraqiel #azazel #book of enoch #this took a really long time you guys so please leave a note <3 #ivoc #erasure theory

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